Now You See Me (23 page)

‘Sorry.'

‘Stop fucking apologising.'

I picked up the towel and chucked it to him to mop the blood away. ‘You should tip your head back.' There was blood all down the nightdress. I went down to fetch a cold wet flannel but when I got back the bleeding had almost stopped.

‘Sorry,' I said. I couldn't think what else to say.

‘Sorry,'
he spat. He went downstairs.

I took off the nightie and threw it on the fire. It wisped into flame and bits of it flew up the chimney before the rest sizzled on the coals. The smell was of Doggo's burning blood. I put on my T-shirt and knickers and got between the cold sheets. I thought he would never come back upstairs. I lay there for ages wondering what he was doing down there, what he was thinking. Wondering if he would ever come back up. Listening for the slam of the door. But after a while he did come stumping back up.

‘What is up with you?' he said. His voice had gone stuffy and thick as if he had a cold. I couldn't look at him.

‘Nothing.'

‘You're a fucking tease,' he said. He was so angry. I could smell it coming off his skin.

‘I'm not.'

‘You were begging for it.'

‘I wasn't. You said it didn't matter if we didn't do it,' I said and dared to look up at him. His penis had given up hope and flopped down.

‘I never said it didn't
matter,'
he said. He put some clothes on and got into bed but so far away from me he might as well have been on another planet. ‘It does matter,' he said after a while. ‘That's what it's all about, isn't it?'

I wanted to say, What
what's
all about? but I didn't say anything. I wanted to say, That's
not
what it's all about for
me
but I just lay there. How could I explain? I was nearly afraid to breathe.

‘Why didn't you just say no?' he said. ‘Christ, Lamb, you didn't have to head-butt me.'

‘Didn't mean to.'

‘Don't know if I
can
do without,' he said, ‘not with us being so close together. And what are you doing dressing up in that fucking négligé thing and prancing about if you don't want it. Fucking tease.' I opened my mouth to say it wasn't a négligé it was a nightie but shut it again. We lay side by side in a stiff sulk.

I thought about what he'd just said.
I
don't know if I can do without
. Did that mean he'd rape me or he'd leave me if I wouldn't do it with him?

I lay for ages listening to the crackling fire, the wind, to Doggo's breath and the invisible sound that snowflakes make. It felt as if the room was rocking. Doggo's breath turned from angry snuffly breath to calm breath and then to sleeping breath.

When I was sure he was asleep I slid across the cold sheet and into the edges of his warmth. I was so wide awake it was like someone had opened up my skull to the wind and snow. I moved up against Doggo until we were touching and after a while he curled round me and the weight of his warm sleeping arm came across me. I screwed up my eyes but the flames flickered right through the lids.

Twenty-eight

The phone woke me, ringing on and on for ages. I didn't move, holding my breath hoping that it wouldn't disturb Doggo but it was OK, he didn't even stir. It was morning and an odd bluish light was filtering between the curtains. There were dark splatters of blood on the pillow from Doggo's nose-bleed. I could only see his hair above the slippery quilt. Sharp quiffs of feather were poking through the material and I lay there pulling them out, wondering what kind of bird they came from.

In the end I got up. It was freezing and silent, as if the whole world had put a finger to its lips. I pulled my sweater on and went to the window and looked between the curtains. The sky was bright toothpaste-blue and the garden and the roofs, the whole city, muffled with snow. The fire had gone out, just a clag of grey cinders and a powder of silky ash all over the carpet that stuck to my footsoles.

Excitement swooped through me. On snowy days when I was a kid I used to rush out into the garden before breakfast and stamp about in my Wellingtons, making the first footprints in the whole wide world. I felt like doing the same now.

Of course it would be all right with Doggo. I would somehow make it be all right. His sleeping breath was like a kind of charm.

I crept out and down the stairs listening to the creaking of my feet on the treads. It was as if part of me was still down there in the cellar, listening to the feet moving about above. But these feet were mine and I was
not
down there any more. This was me up here. The real me. The other one was like a kind of ghost or shadow.

The back room was sweltering because we'd left the electric fire on high all night. It stunk of dog breath. Gordon and Doughnut got up and wagged their tails but when I put my hand out to pat Gordon, he side-stepped. I know he blames me for Norma, but it was not me. I would never hurt a dog.

I opened the back door for them and they just stood and gawped. The snow had blown halfway up the door and stuck there. From their height the world had been blocked off into a frieze of glittering white. Doughnut bumped his nose on it and Gordon gave an anxious whine.

‘Come on, boys,' I said and we went through to the front. The sun shining through the green stained-glass fanlight mottled my bare feet. I opened it and the cold blasted in. The snow was deep but not drifting in the front and the two dogs went out to do their stuff.

I made a tray of tea and biscuits to take up to Doggo in bed. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I remembered that during the night he'd had a nightmare. He had woken me up, twitching and whimpering and making frightened sounds like bits of chopped-up words. I'd held him. It didn't stop the dream but I liked to hold him. Maybe it was of some help, subconsciously. I whispered things like
You are safe
. He hadn't properly woken but eventually calmed down and lay quietly in my arms.

My feet were numb. Walking up the stairs with the tray of tea I noticed how the hairs on my legs were bristling out with cold. I thought maybe I should shave them. Or just wear trousers all the time. When I was halfway upstairs the phone rang again. I hesitated, nearly left it, then put the tray on a step and went down to answer it.

It was the hospital to say that Mr Dickens was dead. He'd had another stroke in the night. They thought I was Sarah but what difference does that make? They asked me what I wanted to do and I had no idea. They asked me to ring them back later when I'd got over the shock.
Do you understand?
a woman kept saying, as if I was subnormal. I put the phone down and stood there staring at it.

I took the tea up. Doggo was still asleep but I pulled the curtains to let in the snow light. Doggo put his head out from under the covers, squinting. He had a delicate crust of dried blood round his nostrils. When he saw the tea he smiled. My stomach went soft at his smile. I climbed into bed and he flinched at my icy toes.

‘Still lying?' he said and I swallowed. What did he mean
lying?
Then he said, ‘The snow,' but he gave me a blade of a look.

‘Deep,' I said quickly. ‘We're practically snowed in.'

‘You going to explain?' he said.

‘I think it's to do with atmospheric conditions,' I said but he didn't laugh. I tried to but my throat was closing up.

‘You going to tell me what's up with you?' he said.

‘I'm gay.'

‘No you're not.'

‘How do you know?'

‘You said so. Anyway … Try again.' He waited. He slurped his tea then looked at me sharply. ‘You got Aids or something?'

‘No!'

‘You just don't fancy me then. That it?' he said.

‘No, no,' I said more quickly than I meant, ‘no it's not that.'

‘You
do
fancy me.'

‘Well … yes.'

‘Ta.' He grinned. ‘So what the fuck's up with you then?'

‘I …' I couldn't bring myself to say it. He waited.

‘I've run out of ideas,' he said. ‘Unless you've taken holy orders.' That nearly made me laugh. He held my hand between his gentle murdering hands, stroked my fingers, pinching the ends the way I love.

I took a deep breath. ‘OK then I'm frigid,' I said.

He put his head on one side. ‘Frigid.' He considered the word, said it slowly like it was a strange new taste. ‘Frigid. Fucking hell. Why?'

I shrugged. I was getting fed up with the subject, all the questions. ‘How am I supposed to know?'

‘Were you mucked about with as a kid?'

‘Don't be stupid,' I said.

He let go of my hands. ‘So, sex isn't an option then?'

There was no way I could answer that. I couldn't even nod or shake my head.

‘What
do
you want then?' he said. ‘Why are we together in this bed?'

To say
For your warmth
would have sounded stupid.
Your warmth and your heart beating by my ear and your arms around but nothing else
. That sounds too stupid to be true.

But once we got downstairs it was OK again. He was like a kid about the snow, worse than me. I borrowed a pair of Wellies from the cloakroom, maybe Zita's, and we pushed our way through the drifts of snow against the door. It was so perfect the way the snow had traced the edge of even the smallest twig and covered the muddy wreck of the garden with curves and dips of white. The sun came out even though it was frosty cold all day and everything sparkled, with shadows blue and mauve.

‘Oi,' Doggo said and before I could turn round there was the splat of icy cold on my face. It stung, the ice crystals sharp against my skin.

‘Ow!' I put my hand up to my cheek and he pelted me again, this time it hit my ear. I wanted to go in.

‘Get me back then,' he said.

I crouched down and gathered up a handful of snow, but when I flung it, it just powdered up mid-air.

‘Pathetic,' he went and threw another one that thumped against my chest. It really hurt. I felt like crying. Gordon was eating the snow. Doggo laughing like it was all some big joke. I tried to laugh too. I picked up more snow and squeezed it hard between my hands until it made a solid ball. I threw it but he jumped aside. It missed and smashed against the wall. He kept on throwing. He got me on the head and then the thigh. I couldn't believe how much it hurt like he was throwing stones at me. Like hurt is what he really wanted, to hurt me.

My hands were raw and numb and almost orange from the cold. I made another one and flung it and this time it hit. It clocked him on the cheek and bits of white stuck in his beard. He paused, I flinched – but he just laughed. ‘She's got it!' he said and punched the air. He was exactly like a little kid. I got him once more but only on the arm.

‘Let's make a snowman,' he said. I tried to help but my hands were frozen solid. I don't know how he stood it. He made a small ball and started rolling it about. It gathered up the snow quickly, a growing globe of white. He rolled it further down the garden and soon the perfect snow was messed with streaks of mud and mud mixed with the snow and instead of a pure white ball it was grey and stuck with torn-off leaves, bird-shit and squashed berries. He never finished it. He soon got bored. The sun went in and the sky turned to a giant pink bruise. We went inside.

He fetched a bottle of wine up from the cellar. I was thinking mulled wine would be nice, my mum used to do that sometimes but I didn't know how, so we just drank it cold. We were thawing our fingers and toes out by the fire when Doggo said, ‘What about visiting Mr Dickens?'

‘Tomorrow,' I said. ‘He wouldn't expect us in this weather.'

But when he'd said that the snow started sliding off the roof, like a spell had broken. Yes, in the night the thaw began and snow slid with that awful whoosh and there were creakings and drips and the fire didn't want to burn, it hissed with the drops trickling down the chimney and the wind got up and boo-hooed outside.

We sat up late because going to bed was awkward. We didn't need to sleep in the same bed but I wanted to. Just to be close beside him while he dreamt. Just to be near his beating heart. I thought if I went up first he might stay downstairs and sleep by the fire or maybe in Mr Dickens' bed or Sarah's. I was nodding off before he finally got up and stretched. He shoved the dogs out for a minute, then he went upstairs. I followed. He didn't mind. At least he didn't say.

It was freezing because nobody had thought to light the fire. It was too cold to undress. With most of our clothes on we slipped between the icy sheets. Doggo immediately turned his back but didn't go straight to sleep. He didn't ask me to do anything or even kiss me. He was in one of his talking moods. He lay and talked into the dark, explained about the dogs.

When he'd got out of prison, jumping from a transfer van, he'd gone straight to his gran's. They were her dogs. She was confused and ill. She didn't know he'd escaped or even been in jail. Nothing stuck in her memory for more than five minutes. She kept saying to him, ‘Look after my doggies,' because she needed to go into hospital for an operation on her hip. There was nobody else to take care of them. And if she went into hospital they'd have had to be put down or anyway, that's what she thought. Doggo promised he'd mind them for the few weeks she was in hospital and the few weeks were nearly up. I thought it was strange to take on two dogs when you're lying low. ‘Too fucking right,' he said. ‘Who'd think to look for a man with dogs.'

His gran had promised not to say a word. Not that anyone would have taken notice if she had, she was that loopy. After his mum had left he'd spent a lot of time with her. She had called him Doggo ever since he was a little kid, because he was so soft on dogs. Now it was up to him to tell her about Norma's death. I could see that would be hard.