Now You See Me (28 page)

Doggo's eyes were on me. I looked everywhere I could except his eyes until in the end I just had to.

‘What you staring at?' I said.

‘I
know.'

‘Know what?'

‘Know you stole that money off Mr Dickens.'

‘I did not!'

‘You bought these things with that money, didn't you?'

‘I did
not …'

‘Where's it from then? When I met you you were skint as me then suddenly presents, pizzas, clothes … Your hair-do.'

Hair-do! I wanted to laugh. No one's called it a hair-do for about a hundred years. What was the matter with him? I mean he had
slept
with Sarah and I had said not a word about it. I was giving him presents. I was giving him Christmas.

He could have had anything he wanted from me.

‘And Sarah knows you stole it,' he said. ‘Out of that sideboard.'

‘What?'

‘She even saw you looking in there. Fuck it, Lamb. I can't believe you'd do that after how nice she's been, sorting your arm out and letting us be here …'

And shagging you
, I thought but I didn't say. ‘I did
not,'
I said instead. ‘And anyway what about all the wine? You steal all the time. What about the tree?' I thought there was nothing he could say to that and I was right. I looked at the tree and one of the baubles slid down and plopped on to the floor. I didn't even bother to pick it up. There were only about two left on and I'd never even taken a photo. I'd never even got a camera.

You can just picture it, can't you. Me out of the way and them with their chairs pulled close together, knees touching, oh what a thrill, talking about me and making up stories when they knew nothing about me. You can just imagine them getting closer and closer till they closed right over the space where I'd been.

If they think I would steal money from Mr Dickens then they don't know the first thing about me. I can't believe Doggo could think that of me. I thought of telling him about Mr Harcourt and how I got the money but why
should
I? Anyway he wouldn't have believed me. Why doesn't anyone believe a single thing I say?

There were no more possible words so I just slammed out of there. He never even said thank you. I thought, sod this trying and trying to make things nice. All that effort and to be told I am a thief. To be told that by a murderer who
I
am hiding from the law. And Sarah with her great big curves all cosied up in my bit of bed with my Doggo.

I was walking so fast there were practically sparks coming off my jeans. I could have gone then. I had it in me to go, just go, but it was like there was a voice saying
Do not give up
. And for once I listened. I stopped walking away. I stopped dead and swivelled on my heel.

Thirty-four

I went into Tesco like any normal person and bought the dinner. Rolled turkey breast, which only takes an hour, with cranberry sauce, spuds, sprouts and a pudding. Also a bottle of Cognac and some crackers. And that was all the money blown. In some ways a relief.

When I got back Doggo had taken the dogs out and left all his presents dumped on the floor. He's so ungrateful. And he should
not
go out like that. I'm always telling him. I picked everything up and hung the jacket over the back of a chair. I chucked the deodorant in the bin.

I set the table and turned the telly off for once and started on the food. Things like peeling potatoes and cutting little crosses in the sprouts I haven't done for years but I remembered how. I managed to fix the baubles back on the tree. There was no star on top and no fairy and that was a mistake but there was nothing I could think of to use instead so I left it bare.

I put on the white pyjamas even though it was daytime and they
were
like Zita's. I looked at the picture and at myself in the bathroom mirror. It was weird how similar we were. I made sure the little silver hand was showing between the buttons. Then I had a good idea. I took the photo of Zita in her white pyjamas and pegged it to the top of the Christmas tree with a clothes peg. The perfect angel.

I put mascara on and drew a thick line of smoky kohl right round my eyes and in the bathroom light my red streaks showed. I did my lips damson and fetched some claret from the cellar and opened it so it had time to breathe. The time went on and the house filled up with cooking smells but there was still no Doggo. I was starting to think, what if he never came back? What then? But at last he did.

He walked in and looked round the room and at that moment I realised I'd forgotten candles. Candles on the table would have been the finishing touch. And maybe one of those table decorations with fir-cones sprayed gold. We could have done without the two wet dogs though. Doggo had a strange expression on his face. I couldn't tell you what it meant.

I poured out some wine and handed it to him. ‘Happy Christmas,' I said.

‘Fuck off,' he said but he knocked it back then shrugged and grinned. ‘Not bad,' he said, ‘a perky vintage.' He avoided looking at his presents and I didn't look either. He didn't mention the pyjamas even though I was standing beside the tree with Zita's picture on top so there was no way he could have missed the likeness.

We drank the wine too quickly and I thought maybe we'd need some more. We pulled a cracker. He wouldn't at first but I kept poking him with it till he got hold of the end and pulled. The snap made Gordon bark and put a tang of fireworks in the air. Doggo got the big end and inside was a pair of tacky ear-rings.

‘Here,' he said chucking them at me, ‘Happy Christmas.' I ignored the sarcastic edge in his voice and put them on even though they were dangly plastic carrots. We pulled another cracker and put the hats on. He read out the jokes which were those elephant ones like How does an elephant get down from a tree? Sit on a leaf and wait till autumn. Hahaha. But we never ate the dinner.

‘Lamb, maybe you could give what's left of dosh back?' he said. ‘Then we could forget it. I know Sarah would.'

His hat was orange and purple and why would anyone put orange and purple together in a hat? It was half over one eye and he pushed it up.

‘It was not Mr Dickens' money,' I said keeping my voice level. ‘It was mine. I told you.'

‘Yeah right.' His fists were bunched up, the scars shiny. Scars he made because of
me
. To please
me
. Listen, what he did with Sarah meant nothing. Just fucking someone, that's not special or clever, is it? Animals do it all the time. Even I'd done it now and sure enough it did mean nothing.

‘Let's go to bed,' I said. I don't know why I said it. But anyway he shook his head. ‘What's up, shagged out?' I said. I didn't mean to say that. It must have been the wine catching up with last night's tequila. He took the paper hat off and scrunched it into a ball. It didn't matter. There were four more crackers left with four more hats inside.

‘You're doing my head in,' he said in a voice like a tyre going down. ‘You are one screwed-up person.'

Me!

‘You need help,' he said.

I laughed.

‘Sarah says,' he started but realised that was maybe not the thing to say. I stared at him, pityingly, shaking my head. I didn't say a word because remember, not speaking is more powerful than speaking. When I met Doggo he was sneaking about in his mum's house with her stolen bag and then trying to piss off in a puff of smoke. He is a murderer on the run. A wanted man. And
he
thinks
I
need help.

‘Why didn't you say about Mr Dickens?' he said.

Well what's
that
got to do with anything?

‘What else have you lied about?' he went on. ‘Or maybe, what have you
not
lied about?'

Lies. What are lies? Everybody lies, they do it all the time. Can you honestly say you have never lied? Haha. Trick question. Say yes you're a liar, say no you're a liar too. There is nothing wrong with lying. It doesn't mean you're out of control. Lying
is
control.

‘OK then,' he said. ‘Where
did
you get money? And don't say savings.'

‘Why?' I said.

‘What do you mean, why?'

‘What does it matter?'

That stumped him. I spilt some wine on my pyjama trousers and it spread like a fast purple bruise.

‘Why do you care anyway?'

He leant forward and put his hands over his face for a minute then he took them away. ‘Fuck knows,' he said, looking at the carpet, ‘but I do.'

‘Do what?'

‘Care.'

Oh
.

There was a long period of quiet. Doughnut groaned in his sleep. Bubbling sounds from the kitchen, a creak from the fire. Maybe a smell of something burning. I tried to think of what to say but then he started off again.

‘Tell me one thing,' he said. ‘How's research going? Lighthouses, was it? Or fashion? Sarah said Mr Dickens said it was fashion. That's why you had his album, with the pictures of his wife. Or was it your nan?'

‘So?' I said.

What difference does it make anyway? Lighthouses or fashion or nothing at all?

‘Quit saying
so
to everything.'

‘Why?'

His eyes rolled up to the ceiling and the scars on his fists stretched tight.
‘And
she said you'd made out we'd been living together for years.' A burning smell
was
coming from the kitchen. I got up. ‘Is anything you've told me true?' he said. ‘And
did
you shag another guy last night? Was it another lie – that you're frigid? Funnily enough I believed that one. I felt right sorry for you.
Joanna Vinier.'

I wish he hadn't said that. I was all right up to that point. But Joanna Vinier is someone else entirely. I went into the kitchen and found that the potatoes which were meant to be par-boiling had gone into a mush and welded themselves to the bottom of the pan. I chucked the pan in the bin. When I looked back Doggo was putting Gordon's lead on. The
diamanté
collar glinted in the plastic flame-light.

‘I'm off,' Doggo said.

‘Don't go out,' I said, ‘you might get caught.'

‘What if I do. Makes more fucking sense inside than you do.'

‘What about the Christmas dinner?'

He didn't bother to answer. ‘Please,' I said but he just shrugged on his old jacket not the new one.

‘Come on, lads,' he said. Doughnut hauled himself up.

‘K. Be like that,' I said.

I went back in the kitchen and turned the oven off. All that stupid fucking turkey smell filling up the house. Who cares anyway? He slammed the door so hard I thought the house would fall down but it didn't it just stood there all around me and I was very small. The vegetable knife was on the side, the steel glinting like a friend. I picked it up. The new scar on my arm was ridged and red. It would be so easy. Just to let the pressure off, just to ease it up a bit. But what if he came straight back in? Anyway the knife was blunt. I banged it down and picked the new gloves off the floor, lovely gloves, black fleece. What's up with him anyway slamming the door like that and not wearing the new gloves even though it's freezing cold?

I stood in the room for a long time. There are so many sounds in a house. The sounds of it holding itself up, wall by wall, the thin sounds of hidden wires, the plumbing sounds. The pyjamas were ruined by the wine and my head was throbbing. I picked up a new cracker and tried to pull it but I couldn't pull it by myself, I couldn't rip my arms far enough apart. I could have gone out too. I looked at the new coat and thought about putting it on and going out. I could be like a spy and follow Doggo wherever he went. But what would be the point? I took off my paper hat and tore it to shreds.

I went into the hall and stood looking at the barred-up room. It really got to me that the room was barred up and empty. I do think it a weird and sinister thing to do, bar up a room like that.

Sometimes you do things without thinking, don't you? As if you are watching yourself but quite detached from the decision. I stood outside the room where Zita burnt to death. I got hold of the plank of wood and pulled. There was no struggle. It came off straightaway as if it wanted to. So simple after all that time. I stood there with it in my arms and then I put it down. I put my hand on the door-handle and turned it. The door opened and I stepped inside.

And there was nothing. There was no carpet or hole in the floor or stink of old fire. No lampshades or bookshelves, no vases. Nothing, not even a light bulb to switch on. Just nothing. The day was dark with sleet falling. You could hear it tutting like a million tongues. The room was dark with the curtains pulled. I walked across the bare floor and opened the curtains. The window was licked by wet grey tongues. The light that came through was a dirty wavery light and the room was empty. I got a feeling in my chest like a door opening and then pain.

I thought there would be something. Some sort of leftover something even if it was only smell. But it was clean and blank. Rain shadows wobbled and slid on the walls and the floor. I started to sweat. My heart went like a rat in a cage, trying to scrabble out of my ribs.

The grate was a black and empty throat.

I hurt so much. My back and my belly with a body memory of hurt. Like a dream of being awake and remembering and my body did remember. I went on my knees.

The memory came and my mouth dribbled blood when I bit my tongue. The sleet was stinging in the chimney-throat. The door was miles away and there was no way I could move. Wind blew out of the grate like black breath. I shut my mind but it rushed over me and the rat fled right out of my chest and disappeared across the floor and down a hole.

Thirty-five

The place I was was bed and it was dark. Ice branched in my veins. My head was empty as a room and my chest was, till my heart came back. Wind rattled the glass all night, it crept through cracks and chinks, whistled between my ribs, flapped my lungs like curtains while my sad heart throbbed.