The Last Girl (24 page)

Well, I said
I had all sorts tucked away, didn't I? What's more I know what else I said -
about me throwing out every whipstitch belonging to her, Doreen. I keep meaning
to get rid of this scarf and all, but it's like the brick in the fireplace,I
keep forgetting about it. Then something like tonight crops up, and not only do
I remember it, I'm actually glad it's there, that scarf of hers. You see,
believe it or not, it's come in handy a couple of times over the years, as I
dare say it will again tonight.

Anyway,
there's the scarf, but what appears next is a bit of a surprise even for me.
It's a present, wrapped up with gift tag and everything. And just for a second
it's got me wondering if there's not someone else coming back and forth here
after all. Then I remember the reason for that too. Read the message.
'To Larry, with all the
love in the world, Mandy.'
I'm going to open it, of course. Well, we've
had Christmas come early this year so why wait? You'll never guess what's
inside. Or maybe you would, seeing as you could smell it even before taking off
the wrapper. Mediterranean waves washing over broken columns. What do you know,
after that larking around in gentlemen's perfumery, Larry's got a whole bottle
to himself.

All right,
I'll own up. I bought it. And wrapped it up myself. And wrote the message. You
can laugh, but with all this present-buying what was wrong with a little
something for me? Only, unselfish to the. last, I went and bought something she
liked, didn't I? I mean, we know what that scent does for her.

Funny, the
effect of smells. Here's me, only just back to normal after noticing the smell
of this place after all these years, half a century of dinners that refused to
lie down and die. Then there's Mandy's smell, telling its lies, making her out
to be some kind of kid and not a sprinkle of malice in her. Doreen with gin on
her breath, laughing in my face. And now this, the one to take the biscuit. Not
that I'll ever get the knack of wearing it. It's begun to drip all down my neck
again, just like in the shop, only worse this time because now it's gone and
soaked the waistband of my pyjamas. Still, I'll be putting a coat over that.
And I’m not washing it off, Because this is the smell that does things to
Mandy, isn't it? The more you put on then, the more you'll do.

Which means
I'm nearly all set. Except for the lipstick. Orange, naturally. Doreen's colour.
Doreen's lipstick. They've got to be wearing it at the time, otherwise it's not
the same.

You don't
know what I'm talking about, do you?

Then it's off
down the stairs again. You wouldn't believe how lively I feel. It's what comes
from knowing it's all about to slip into place. Take that scarf of Doreen's for
instance. You’d be surprised at how natural it felt. Yet when was it I used it
last? Six, seven years ago? Christmas, seven years ago. After June's visit. I
don't know what they make them from, but hold a bit of scarf like that
normally, and it causes no end of problems. It's the fake satin effect, meaning
that the darned thing will slide in between your fingers like a piece of wet
fish. But show a bit of nous, hold it properly, with one end wrapped round one
wrist and the other end round the other, and Bob's your uncle. You've got a
good few inches in the middle with which to do exactly what you like.

I know which
room she's in, of course. She slipped into her bedroom half an hour ago,
probably hoping no-one heard her, and there hasn't been a sound out of her
since. But she won't be asleep. She might even be waiting. But what for? For
someone to come back to her wearing that good old familiar smell she knows and
loves? Maybe.

There's no
light under her door. And none out here on the middle landing. I even made sure
to switch off the kitchen light before I came down. No point in burning money.
Talk about dark then. Right now, I can't even see my hand. But there, I was
forgetting, there's the scarf wrapped around it anyway. After that it's a case
of just walking in. Don't ask if I knocked. You have to earn your privacy in
this house.

She doesn't
know I'm here though. Not yet. She's pulled the curtains at last, is lying here
in the dark because she can't face the Light of Truth. You can just about make
her out, curled up on the bed. She hasn't even heard me. Too wrapped up in
herself, and how she's going to face a world that's seeing her with new eyes.
Blind and deaf she may be, but it makes no odds. All I have to do is stand here
in the dark, and pretty soon she'll know. And sure enough you can begin to feel
it happening as the air around her changes. Over on the bed, something stirs.
Two quick breaths, and then her voice, sharp and high and unbelieving: 'Francis?'

And at that I
close in.

I left her as I found her. No, really. And if that
surprises you, you want to hear what happened. Truth is, I don't even like
thinking about it. I took it slow, sat down on the bed beside her, didn't say a
word. Pitch dark it was. But you could practically hear those waves breaking in
Mediterranean fashion. And that's when I feel these arms going up around my
neck. Slowly to begin with, as if she can hardly believe there's anyone there.
And that was bad enough, not least because the suspicion was that she still
hadn't bothered to put her clothes back on. But what's worse is her face,
trying to find mine in the dark, like a baby looking for its mother, and what
does that show except that she's up to her old tricks even now. Still making
out she's nothing but a big kid with none of the drawbacks.

Enough is
enough. 'Give over, Mandy,' I say to her. 'It's not nice you know.

It's my voice
that does it to her. At the back of my neck her hands seem to go into spasm,
and lock. Then let go and fall to the bed with a thud like two dead birds.
Since she seems incapable, I lean across and switch-on the light beside her.

'Oh Mandy
girl, you should see yourself.'

It's all I
can do not to laugh. She hasn't got a stitch on, but that hardly counts, not
with a face like hers at the moment. Eyes like two pork pies, all swelled up
and pink, nose the same, lips too big and fat to close properly. Just for a
second there I thought he must have clouted her, and no bad thing, but then I
realized it was because she’d been crying after all. It must have been the
silent variety because I haven't heard a thing upstairs. Anyway, there's Mandy
no oil painting at the best of times, and certainly not now, kneeling on the
bed facing me, with an expression that is just plain stupid. I mean, there are
idiots in institutions who can manage to look a bit more with it than her right
now. Given all that, then, you can see why the rest of her is hardly going to
appeal. Least of all to Larry.

'You know
what, Mandy,' I say. 'You need a bit of colour.' She doesn't say anything.
She's begun to rock back and forth slowly like some big doll in motion. 'Try
this,' I say. 'It was Doreen's, but it would suit you. You're the kind of
person that it would.' Again she doesn't say a word, doesn't even look at me
and the rocking, it just gets worse. So the only thing to do is help her out. I
take the lid off the lipstick and the next time she rocks in my direction, I
catch hold and smear the stuff on. Not exactly what you could call neat. You're
not meant to wear it halfway across your face like some kid who's been in its
mum's handbag. But it's still an improvement. And at least it's stopped her
rocking.

'There,' I
tell her. 'Just right.' And pick up the scarf again, this time with both hands.
Hold it up for her to see, a bit miffed maybe because those eyes of hers, they
don't seem to be taking in a thing. But I needn't have worried, she understands
all right. You only had to watch the sheet. There's a stain the shape of
Australia there, spreading out and darkening, and for an instant you can catch
it, the tang of pee. Little girl's pee, like June's.

But then,
would you believe it, a couple of seconds later she starts rocking again. Lifts
up her head in the process, looking not at me but at the wall behind. Not what
you would expect in the circumstances. You could almost think she was trying to
make it easier. Then suddenly it hits me: that's exactly what she was up to.

All I was
doing was saving her the trouble.

Well, you can
imagine, that stops me, dead in my tracks. Turned me right off. Next thing, I
was unwrapping the scarf and putting it away.
Let
her do her own dirty work.
Blowed if Larry's going to smooth her path.

And what's
more, if she does, and they come round, asking what happened on the middle
landing, I'll tell them exactly. That should put a few cats among the pigeons
up in Edinburgh. Ethel will back me up, she'll be feeling that vicious. Tenants
doing themselves in on her furniture. It's only a pity Mandy was still hollering
when he went.

I switched
off the light for her though.

So now
Larry's got to go out after all. Well, deep down, I knew it was a bit too close
to home. Me sitting up here and her down there, and any number of people to
point to the fact that I was the only one who knew her, I mean really knew her.
You never would have caught me making that mistake with Doreen, or June come to
that. Besides, can you imagine trying to collar a woman like Doreen? The
strength in that woman's arm, you wouldn't believe. It wouldn't have been a
fair fight. What it boils down to is, women like her have a wall of wickedness
around them, and there's no getting over it. It's just that Mandy got me that
angry, I've never quite known anything like it. Not even Doreen let me down the
way she did.

But there are
plenty of others, aren't there? Out there, looking for victims, telling their
lies. Women wanting to injure and maim. Women with men in their sights. For
every Doreen, or Mandy come to that, there are a thousand more raring to do the
same thing to some other poor bugger. Catch one at it; and you've caught them
all. So when it comes to getting a bit of your own back, it makes no difference
who you choose in the end. Pick any one you like, you'll still be doing society
a favour and saving some other poor bloke from the inevitable. In an ideal
world there'd be men queuing up to shake your hand.

But I'll tell
you the real problem this time, it's all the weather we've been having. Why do
they always have to choose Christmas? Don't laugh, but I'm beginning to think
the only female ever to pay any attention to it being the Season of Goodwill
was the bloody Virgin Mary. First Doreen, then June. And now Mandy. And that
being the case, you know exactly what it's going to be like, the minute you step
out the door. Shocking that wind is, coming right at you in the dark, straight
across the road from Finsbury Park. What's more, it's worse this time. Twelve
years ago, even seven years ago Larry still had the constitution for it, but
that's hardly the case now. No-one in his right mind would expect an elderly
man to go out, risking his health in this climate just so he can do his bit for
the rest of mankind. But, as I've always said: someone's got to do it.

This will be
the last girl, though. Then I reckon I'll deserve a rest. The one comfort is,
she'll be easy to find, like the last time and the time before that. It even
helps having this wind. She'll be huddled in some doorway, trying to keep warm
regardless, waiting, just asking for it. I might not have to go very far. The
one thing you don't do is ask her name. And if she tells you anyway, remember
it's only a ploy, her trying to make out she's different. Forewarned is
forearmed. In this case, a bit of lipstick to remind you who you're dealing
with, and that scarf of Doreen's, shutting off the lies, all that loose talk,
before the words even have a chance to get out. To be honest, I don't think
anything else would do the trick.

And after
that, back to the warm. Tomorrow I'm going to clean out my cupboards, and think
about a bit of paper-stripping.

Merry
Christmas Larry.

THE END