The White Room (22 page)

Monica felt emotions rising inside her: the trapped suffocating feeling of knowing this was it. This was her life. All she could hope for, tied to a daughter who every day was reminding her mother how fast she was ageing, what she was missing out on, what was slipping by her.

She felt anger rise rapidly inside her. It wasn't going to happen. She wouldn't let it happen.

She snatched up her handbag and made for the door.

The two women were on their feet, placatory remarks on their lips, but she ignored them. She pulled open the door and ran, not even looking back at Mae playing on the floor.

Down the stairs and on to Clayton Street.

She ran.

As far away from the adoption agency, from Mae, as possible.

She ran.

And never once looked back.

They caught up with her, of course. Later. At home.

Because she had nowhere else to go.

She had walked around the city centre, in and out of shops. Looked at clothes, tried some on. Imagined herself in new, exciting situations, imagined accessories for her new life. She found a couple of pubs she knew. Had a couple of gins and tonics. Told anyone within earshot she was celebrating her new-found freedom. Her new life. People ignored her, moved away from her.

Trying too hard to be happy.

Eventually, hope and money spent, she had gone home. And waited.

Resigned.

She poured herself a drink, put the TV on. A new programme about an old Edwardian grandfather and his granddaughter in a spaceship designed as a police box. They could go anywhere in space and time with it, and it was much bigger on the inside than the outside, like the size of a house.

It was rubbish, she thought, kiddies' stuff, but she kept watching it. They were on an alien planet where a race of beautiful blonds were being menaced by some evil robot pepperpots. The old grandfather, this Doctor, was going to help them.

Monica wished she were there with them, the blond, beautiful people. It was obvious they were going to win out, defeat the robots. She would even love to be in the police box, free in time and space. She would even put up with the bad-tempered old grandfather trying to fuck her. It would be worth it.

But she knew it wouldn't happen. So she sat there, emptying gin into her glass, topping it up with tonic, knocking it back, waiting for the knock at the door.

It wasn't long in coming.

She moved to answer it, swaying unsteadily as she made her way down the hall. There stood a young police constable, next to him, Mae.

‘Miss Monica Blacklock?'

Monica nodded.

‘Got something here belonging to you.' He gave a cocky grin. ‘Seems you left it behind.'

He ushered Mae into the house. She went mutely, eyes down.

‘Now, they're not pressing charges,' he said, a sternness in his voice, ‘but they will if you try that again. OK?'

Monica nodded.

‘Righto. I'll be off, then.'

She closed the door, looked at Mae, who stared back at her.

Monica knew she didn't love her daughter. She had just experienced a passing guilt, tried to farm her out as a result of that. Guilt told her Mae deserved a better chance. Guilt told her Mae didn't deserve the life she would grow into.

‘Guilt can fuck off,' said Monica aloud.

Mae looked at her quizzically.

‘And I don't know what you're lookin' at.'

Monica felt the familiar tide of anger rising inside her. She tried to head it off. She was too drunk, too tired to deal with it.

‘Go upstairs. Go to bed.'

‘But it's only—'

‘Don't fuckin' argue with me—'

Monica made to cuff Mae about the head, but Mae anticipated the blow and moved. Monica overbalanced. She grabbed the banister.

‘Just fuckin' get upstairs!'

Mae went. Monica made her way back to the living room, poured herself another drink.

‘Cheers.'

She drank. She noticed that the bottle was nearly empty. She would need a new one soon.

Monica sat like that, berating her past, commiserating with her future, for at least two more hours. Or more. Or less. She didn't know. She lost all track of time.

She fell asleep in her chair, the TV broadcasting to no one while John Steed and Cathy Gale smashed yet another spy ring.

Then, a knock at the door.

Monica opened her eyes, closed them again. She wasn't working tonight. Must have imagined it.

Then another knock. More insistent.

Her eyes opened again, this time stayed open. She wondered where she was, who she was. She imagined herself spinning around a black and white universe in a police box spaceship, the grumpy old grandfather not so bad after all.

Another knock. Harder this time. They weren't going away.

Monica stood up. Too quickly. Her head swam. Nausea welled up from within. She stood still, swaying slightly. It passed. She made her way slowly to the door.

‘I'm comin', I'm comin' …'

She opened the door.

‘Hello, pet.'

Recognition didn't come immediately, but when it did it was with a much deeper wave of nausea that owed nothing to the alcohol.

He had thickened around the middle, his hair was greyer and sparser, his face redder and his style of clothes hadn't changed. His eyes had stayed the same.

Her father.

‘Aren't you going to invite your old dad in, then, eh?'

She moved numbly aside, let him enter. He stank of beer and cheap whisky.

‘You've been drinkin',' she said.

He turned to her, sniffed.

‘So've you,' he said, then smiled. ‘Saturday night, eh? S'what it's for.'

He walked into the house. She closed the door, followed him down the hall. Steed and Cathy Gale were involved in an elaborate fight with some black-polo-necked villains. Monica turned the TV off.

‘What d'you do that for? I was watchin' that. That Cathy Gale's a bit of a one, isn't she?'

Monica stared at him. Her head was beginning to clear.

‘What d'you want?' she said.

Her father laughed.

‘Is that any way to talk to your old dad?' He sat down in her armchair, picked up her empty gin glass, held it out to her. ‘Good idea. I'll have one an' all.'

Monica took the glass, crossed to the sideboard. She made two gins and tonics, handed one to him.

‘Cheers,' he said, and drank.

Monica said nothing but drank also.

‘So why are you here, then?' Monica said eventually.

‘Can't I come and see me own daughter some time?'

‘You never have before.'

Monica perched tentatively on the arm of the other chair.

Her dad smiled. ‘Waitin' to be invited, love. Just waitin' to be invited.' He took another mouthful of gin, stretched his legs out. ‘When whatsisname – Brian – left, I thought you'd be back like a shot. When you didn't come I thought it'd only be a matter of time.'

‘And I never did.'

‘So I thought I would come to you.'

Monica knocked back most of her gin.

‘Right,' she said. ‘Now you have. You can drink up and go.'

Her heart was beating fast. She was still frightened of him. She hoped it didn't show.

Her father sat there, drank, looked as if he hadn't heard her.

‘Hear you're on the game now,' he said to his glass, then looked up and smiled at Monica. That cruel look she always feared was back on his face. ‘You any good?'

She felt herself shivering and shaking as if the temperature in the room had dropped. She didn't trust herself to speak.

‘I'll pay,' he said, offhand. ‘I'm just curious, like.'

Terror welled within. Her heart pounded faster, breath quickened. The terror broke as anger. She knocked the glass from his hand. Gin and tonic soaked into the carpet.

‘Get out! Just get out!'

She hit him. Small fists dealing small blows. The impact barely registered on his arm, his chest.

He stood up. She stopped, took a step back.

‘Got brave suddenly, have you?' He smiled, eyes aglow with that old, cruel light. ‘Maybe I should hit you. Be rough with you, eh?' He crossed to her, stood directly in front of her. ‘I hear you like it.'

She closed her eyes, cowering, expecting the blow.

‘What's happenin', Mam?'

Monica opened her eyes. Mae was standing there, eyes full of sleep, wearing a nightie that needed a wash, clutching her toy rabbit.

‘Hello, there.'

Monica's father had bent down, switched his attention from his daughter to his granddaughter. Monica couldn't move. She just watched.

‘And what's your name?'

‘Mae.'

‘That's a lovely name, Mae. Well, d'you know who I am?'

Mae shook her head.

‘I'm your granddad. How old are you, Mae?' ‘Seven.'

His eyes lit up. The cruelty intensified.

‘Seven, eh? That's a great age to be.' He looked up, smiled at Monica. ‘A great age.'

Monica looked at him. Watched as he stood up, crossed back towards her. He smiled at her.

‘How much?' he said.

Monica felt her body tremble again. She was going to tell him to leave, to physically attempt to throw him out, make him stay away from her daughter.

But then she looked at her daughter.

Black, dead eyes staring up at her. Undisguised kernels of hatred directed at her.

Monica didn't love her. Didn't even like her. Certainly didn't want her. But she was stuck with her. And if she was stuck with her, she may as well pay her way.

‘Fiver.'

Her father laughed.

‘A fiver? D'you think I'm daft?'

‘You'd be the first. You'd be breakin' 'er in. Fiver.'

‘I haven't got a fiver on us.'

Monica smiled. She had the upper hand. She was beginning to enjoy herself.

‘How much you got, then?'

He rifled through his pockets.

‘Nearly a pound.'

‘And your wallet.'

He sighed, opened it.

‘Another pound.'

‘I'll have all of that. You can owe me the rest.' She smiled again. ‘And I'll collect. Or I'll tell the polis what you've done.'

Fear flickered in his eyes. Monica got a thrill from that.

She also knew he wanted Mae. Monica loved the control she had over him.

Finally.

She took his money, pocketed it.

‘Mae, go with your granddad. Next door. He's got something to show you.'

Mae and her father went into the room with the white walls and the deep shadows, the crucifixes showing Christ's love, Christ's agony.

Monica poured herself another gin and tonic, one that was nearly all gin, and sat herself in the armchair. She drank.

Her father's soothing words came through the wall.

She drank.

Her daughter's cries and sobs came through the wall.

She drank.

The noise continued.

She talked, shouted, tried to drown the noises out in her head, make them go away:

‘I never wanted you anyway … Never …'

She drank. Drained her glass. Filled another.

‘Why didn't you go away, eh? Why didn't you stay away?'

The noise: soothing words, cries and screams.

‘Why did you have to come back?'

She drank. Looked down at the floor. Saw the dropped toy rabbit. She drained her glass. Grabbed the bottle.

‘Why, eh?'

Cries and screams. Soothing words.

‘Why don't you just die?'

Mae, next door, white and crucifixes, crying and screaming.

Monica sitting there, drinking, tears streaming down her face, crying and screaming.

Crying and screaming.

PART THREE

Downbeat

At night he dreamed the city.

A panoramic swoop: down from the heavens and through the clouds, through the cold air, the grey sky. The city becoming larger, getting closer: various shades of black spreading out from the centre, staining the surrounding greens and browns. Small twinkles of light, like strings of lost diamonds in mud.

Closer still to make out landmarks: Grey's Monument. Royal Arcade. Grainger's New Town: Grainger Street and its covered market, Grey Street and the Theatre Royal. The theatre showing, in this dream, nothing but Victorian spectacle and Edwardian tableau. Then the bridges: the Tyne. The Swing. The High Level. The King Edward. The Redheugh. And further along: Scotswood Bridge. Familiar objects. Dependable. A feeling of comfort and warmth: seeing things where they should be.

Swoop down into the city itself. Familiar still, but now different. Dream different. A city cobbled and stitched together from fragments of previous dreams. Buildings griddled with streets leading to skewed destinations. Follow them: along, around, down. Never emerging quite where expected. The routes become disquieting. A feeling begins to grow, low-level fear: things are not where they should be. How they should be. He realizes, with some concern, that perhaps he doesn't know the city as well as he thought. A discomforting, disturbing feeling.

He gives up trying to follow the roads, to make sense of them, and instead lets them lead him where they will. He doesn't trust them, yet can't change course. He's directionless, powerless. Panic begins to rise within him. He tries to quell it, concentrate on following the roads.

He sees people in the streets, unfamiliar, but also known to him. Dream known. He waves as he passes, tries to talk. He feels he knows them wholly, can tell life stories just from sentences.

They pass, drifting away. He tries to move faster, but the more he tries the slower he becomes. Like his legs have turned to stone, the streets to treacle. So he goes on, the roads leading him.

And then his destination is reached. The roads stop moving. Feeling returns to his legs. Before him is a building. Huge, cathedral-like with vaulted ceilings and archways, supported by massive pillars. All in soot-blackened Victorian red brick. Smooth, worn cobbles under foot. Daylight can be glimpsed through some of the archways, mist and fog rolls in. Huge chimneys belch out clouds of grey smoke. Furnaces around the walls blaze within great iron grates.