Saving Grace, page 5
The flat feels especially oppressive today. Mum snores on the sofa, her long, grimy toenails peep out from her tattered duvet. I can’t remember the last time she washed it; it has long since lost the whiteness and has turned tobacco yellow, the corners fraying from where she bites the ends like a child does with their favourite toy. I study her as she sleeps, wondering how I came from her, grew inside her, how her fragile, broken body somehow managed to sustain my life. Next to her is an energy drink, and crumbs of toast and own-brand chocolate spread. The curtains are shut, banishing the last dregs of the sunlight; windows closed shut, trapping in the sickly air. I don’t press her on making healthy choices or prompt her to go to the doctor for that hacking cough she’s had for weeks. Nor do the blood-spattered tissues she leaves on her bed alarm me. Should they?
Sputter, sputter. Her bony frame wriggles on the sofa like a fish out of water; she bolts upright and holds her throat, gasping to catch her breath. She sees me, waves her arms frantically, pointing to the kitchen. I pause and watch her eyes bulge. Her skin glistens. Bloody mucus expels from her mouth. I transfix my gaze onto the flowery wallpaper, the bright red blooms which have been a part of these walls for as long as I can remember. Mum is with him, loved up, watching Saturday night game shows under the covers. He watches me with hooded eyes, but she doesn’t notice. Eventually she falls asleep and it’s just me and him. She doesn’t feel him move away, doesn’t hear him open my bedroom door. She doesn’t keep me safe. I glance at the kitchen clock – 18:36 – and can’t help but think of how the doctors call it on ER – time of death. Only she isn’t dead, she’s on her hands and knees crawling toward the kitchen, her body becoming slower with every movement until finally, she falls flat onto her stomach. Then there is silence.
Tick-tock… tick-tock.
Can I call it?
I move towards her, gently roll her over. A gentle pull of her shoulder is all it takes. There is no rise and fall of her chest, her eyes are glassy. I don’t need to move any closer to know she’s gone.
I call it: 18:38.
CHAPTER TEN
The paramedic chews the side of her mouth and grunts. Her green uniform is so tight it restricts her movement, she reminds me of an overfilled shopping bag, only it’s her stomach spilling over. She looks at me as if she’s searching for clues.
‘Was Mum sick for long?’ Mum, she says, like we are siblings.
‘Cancer!’ I say deadpan, at least that’s what I think.
‘I’m sorry. Do you have any relatives we can call on your behalf?’
‘No.’ I think of Aunt Lizzy, but I don’t want her to come after me for Mum’s debt, but I guess it’s only a matter of time before she does anyway.
‘I want to stay here,’ I protest.
‘I understand you are under a great deal of stress, but at your age–’
I cut her off. ‘I’m sixteen, I can live alone. It’s me who pays for everything in this place anyway. Mum was sponging off me.’
Her voice softens and she takes a deep breath. ‘But still… it’s best you call somebody, a friend perhaps, to come and stay with you. I lost my own mother when I was young, and I’ll tell you, it’s a shock to the system.’
I don’t understand why people feel the need to share snippets of their lives as if we are now bonded by losing a parent at a young age. I can’t be ‘bonded’ with every fucker whose parents croaked. Shit happens. People die.
Watching her take her last breath exhilarated me to the core, as if somehow watching her die freed the resentment I had harboured for so long. The paramedic, named Dawn, fixes her eyes on me and waits. I can tell she is searching for one ounce of emotion because we are all expected to act in a certain way, do certain things. Well, fuck that, fuck it all! I really don’t care what people think of me. The sound of the zip of the body bag rips through the air, the exact moment when a person becomes a body. The end.
When the buzz of the emergency services dies down and her body is taken away, there is a gentle knock at the door. It interrupts my cleaning session. So far, I have managed to wipe all the surfaces with bleach, open the windows, and fill the flat with fresh air. It feels chilly but comforting, like I had exorcised the demons haunting this place for years. I mentally plan all the things I will do with the flat to make it my own; a lick of paint maybe? Now that she’s gone, the possibilities are endless. Another knock, harder this time. I am reluctant to open the door and wonder why they didn’t buzz in on the intercom, but it’s not as if this block is secure; anybody can push past those hollow wooden doors. There isn’t any neighbourly community here, there are so many different tenants, tenants of tenants, illegals. Car alarms go off so frequently they are ignored, we are tower rats, the scum of society. I open the door to see a man and a woman standing there, they both smile but it doesn’t quite reach their eyes. Both look past me and into the flat.
‘Can I help you?’ I ask.
‘We’re from social services. This is Brian Keith and I’m Sandra Power.’
I almost laugh out loud.
Well, well, well. Social services, here on my doorstep and so quickly too.
Where the fuck were you four years ago?
Sandra waits to be invited in, but Brian steps forward. I block the door with my arm.
‘Now is not a good time,’ I say.
Sandra looks to Brian; she’s new at this, I can tell. I have met enough social workers to pick out the ones who’ve been on the job for years and the eager new blood who think they’re going to change the world one case at a time.
‘We were informed of your mother’s passing and are here to offer support, especially as you are still under the age of eighteen.’
Support – the word hangs in the air like a bad stench. I stand staring at them both, the couple of misfits that they are, ticking boxes, filing paperwork; at the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about.
‘May we come in?’ Brian asks.
‘Not a good time, I’m afraid,’ I say with a shrug. And I mean it too, these people are making my newly clean air toxic again and I am starting to feel irritated. I feel my body temperature rise and I swallow hard, trying to suppress my thoughts and not let them out in the open.
‘We really just want to help.’ Sandra looks at me with pleading eyes, she wants in, and Brian is frustrated, reeling off a load of old shit about my safety and welfare which I am blocking out. I feel my lips curl into a smirk because if this wasn’t so bloody tragic it would be a fucking comedy.
‘Thank you for your concern,’ I say, ‘but I want to be alone right now. I have a lot to process–’
‘We understand it must be hard for you to process, but we have a duty of care.’ Brian cuts me off, his tone authoritative and cold. His smirk sours into a sneer.
‘Duty of care?’ I ask. ‘That’s interesting. Have the policies changed in the last four years, because I don’t really recall you following up on me when I needed your support back then.’
I can feel a vein pulsing in my forehead.
‘There is some history we are aware of,’ Sandra says. ‘We can talk about this inside.’ She turns to Brian whose eyes are narrowed, and he sucks his teeth; the nice guy act truly dropping away.
‘No. We can’t. As I said, I want to be left alone. My mother isn’t even a cold corpse on a slab yet, and you think you can come over for some tea and a pat on the head? Leave me alone!’ I snap.
Brian turns his gaze on me, barely blinking. He takes a deep breath and says, ‘We’re here for you, we totally understand the shock and grief you must be feeling.’ He pauses, smiles. ‘And at times like these, from our experience, getting the right support early on can be very beneficial for you in the long term.’ He isn’t that great an actor with his faux display of compassion and caring. He’s just here because it’s how he pays the rent. I know they can’t force their way in, they know it too, but it doesn’t stop Brian reeling off a load of rehearsed bullshit. Words with no meaning, a heart without a beat. No bloody way was I going to invite them in. It would, inevitably, end horribly.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘You’re just too fucking late. Everything I needed from you fuckwits is in the past now, but I am sure you can find some other poor unfortunate and maybe, just maybe you’ll help them.’ I clench the door handle and with as much strength as I can muster, slam it firmly in their self-righteous faces.
Since Mum’s funeral, I’ve been dancing to my own rhythm. I’ve stripped every wall of that hideous wallpaper, I’ve thrown out the curtains which clung on to years of decay, and the bathroom no longer smells of damp and piss. It’s no show home, but it looks different, feels different. Aunt Lizzy has been hounding me for the money Mum owed her and I tell her it’s nothing to do with me. Mum never had a will, never had any savings but she did have life insurance, go figure. Since I am her immediate family, the money goes to me and Aunt Lizzy can go to hell if she thinks she’s ever getting her hands on it. I messaged Grace after Mum died, she was kind and has reached out to me every day since, but I am not ready to see her right now. I feel like I need to retreat. Like a caterpillar in a chrysalis, I need to re-emerge when I am a butterfly. I want her to see me in a different light. Not because she ever looked at me in a way that ever made me feel ashamed of myself, not because she ever spoke to me like she didn’t want me there. It isn’t like that. I want to be better around her and feel good for me. Before Grace, there was Hannah. She was beautiful too. I was into her, but my feelings for Grace are far more intense. It was fun for a while, but our relationship shifted; I guess it was a first crush, maybe first love kind of thing. I’m not sure. The shift happened when she became more into me than I was her, it changed the dynamics. It made it boring. I didn’t pull away from her immediately, but she noticed the small, subtle changes and she mentioned them, no, correction, hounded me every single goddam time I saw her and it was just too much. I’d been carrying so much emotional baggage I couldn’t carry her too. I did things, bad things, to make her hate me, but she just kept coming back for more. I was as patient as could be. We were at different schools and that helped widen the distance. ‘I’d do anything for you. I’d kill for you,’ she said on the night I told her I couldn’t carry on. She knelt down next to me; I saw her like a leech, a bloodsucking parasite that I couldn’t get rid of. That was the first time I ever really thought about it.
‘You’d really kill for me?’ I asked.
When people say they’d do anything for you, they rarely think you’ll take them up on it. It’s as if the elaborate gesture is enough. But it isn’t enough.
After I asked the question, she was quiet. Silence filled the room and with each passing moment I could feel myself start to crack, my fists tightened into a ball and I was ready to punch something… somebody… her.
‘I would,’ she finally said.
The call came the next morning. Hannah was dead.
I guess she really did love me after all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NEWQUAY
The alarm on Gwen’s phone buzzed and vibrated on the bedside table at 7.15am. The cat kneaded his paws into her pillow, his purrs growing louder. Gwen liked to get up early, as she took these quiet moments for herself to stretch and scroll through her phone. She thought of the day ahead, the filth that awaited her. Nobody ever noticed the cleaner, but they noticed when things had not been cleaned. She was an invisible servant. After several headbutts and a tail-slap in the face, Gwen gave in to Darwin’s plea for breakfast. As soon as she sat up, the cat leapt to the floor, racing to the door, looking back for confirmation his owner was still coming. She made a cup of tea, wiped down an already clean surface, and took a sip from her mug. In the silence, she observed her hands; they were dry and cracked, her fingernails brittle from the endless chemicals and hand washing. They were the vital, yet worn-out tools for her work, but she was grateful because without them she’d have even less.
She left her flat and ventured out into a miserable and wet Sunday morning. Drizzle clung to her hair, she slipped into her car and gave a sigh of relief when it started first time. She drove through a downpour of torrential rain – she hated driving in weather like this – she carefully followed the blurry orange tail lights of the cars in front and finally made it to the club. Her main cleaning job was the local primary school, but since the new head that joined had fallen by the wayside, she’d pay by invoice only. ‘Everything had to be above board,’ as she said. It was a huge blow to her income, cleaning the school was decent pay. Soon after, she met Rocco, the manager of The Earth Rabbit in Newquay, by chance. The club was full of surfer types, free spirits, and locals. It used to be an old discotheque, but it still had the sticky floors, cheap beer, and was home to retro eighties Friday night cheese. Rocco, a laid-back fifty-something Scotsman, a giant of a man who wore shorts no matter the weather, allowed Gwen to work under the table. He’d pay her in cash, always in a small brown envelope with a smiley face drawn on the front. She cleaned The Earth Rabbit twice a week, Friday afternoons and Sunday mornings. Sunday cleans were the worst. After the Saturday night carnage, she cleaned vomit, excrement, and semen that had sprayed up the walls in the toilets. She wore a mask, the kind bought from B&Q, to shield the stench and stop her throwing up.
Gwen entered the club through the back entrance and went to the office first. Rocco sat at his desk, his eyes bloodshot, a glass of whisky sitting untouched in front of him. Gwen smiled at Rocco and opened the window to let fresh air in. It smelled of bodies and aftershave. She didn’t want to know what happened in the office after hours; she didn’t want to think of Rocco in that way. The air was cool, and Gwen’s skin prickled. It felt wrong being in Rocco’s private space, just the two of them. She could feel him watching her. Now she wished she had started with the cloakroom first. It was the easiest job, picking up discarded tickets, straightening up the hangers, vacuuming the carpet, and spraying air freshener.
Rocco leaned back in his office chair. ‘You look tired, Gwenny Girl. You’ve lost weight.’ His tone was caring, but she couldn’t help but feel like he was being critical. Rocco was right though. She had lost weight. The stress of being short of money and rationing food to make sure her daughter Bea was taken care of first and foremost had resulted in her shedding a few pounds. Even her smallest jeans fell from her hips.
‘I was thinking, you don’t earn a great deal with me, do ya?’ Rocco said.
‘You pay me fine.’
‘I’m sure we could work something out, you know. I help you and you help me kind of thing.’
‘Rocco!’ Gwen said crossly. ‘I don’t know where you are going with this but if it’s what I think…’
‘No, no, no. You got me all wrong, Gwenny Girl. My God, no. I meant some work behind the bar. Mike walked out on me last night, left me in the shitter.’
‘I’ve never been a bartender before. I’d mess up the orders… and–’
‘Gwenny, we just get a bunch of high-as-a-kite, horny drunkards in here. They won’t give two shits what you serve them so long as there’s booze in it. All I care about is getting the money in the till.’
‘And you still want me to clean as well as work at the bar?’ Gwen asked.
‘If you can manage it, I’ll pay you a fair wage for both. I like you, Gwen. You remind me of myself; you’re not afraid of some hard graft. And like me, life, well, I dare say, life hasn’t been kind to you. It’s never too late, y’know, Gwenny. To turn it all around.’
‘But…’ She frowned, leaned against the wall, started to let her body relax. ‘How will I keep this from the government? If they find out, I’ll lose everything and I can’t afford to…’
‘Girl, we’ll keep you off the books. Cash in hand, like always. If any of those council bodies come sniffing round here, I got what’s called plausible deniability. I’ll tell them you’re just a mate of mine, a lass I have a lot of time for. Come, I’ll show you where the action happens.’
Rocco showed Gwen how to use the till and she was surprised at how easy it all came to her, but she wondered how well she’d cope in a busy club with the crowds around her.
‘Let me show you where the kegs are kept. Bart’s responsible for changing them, but the more you know the better off you’ll be.’
There was far more to The Earth Rabbit than Gwen realised, the back was corridors and rooms. As she walked behind Rocco, she started to feel a bit sick. Faint and sick. She began to sway and held the concrete walls to steady herself. Rocco turned to her.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, before he could ask what was wrong.
‘What in the love of God is that smell?’ Rocco said, holding his hand over his mouth.
He pushed open the door to the main storage room. It was usually locked but Bart probably forgot because it had been such a busy night.
‘It’s coming from here. Fuck. Maybe we have rats. I need to deal with this right now. Can’t have health and safety shutting me down.’
‘Rocco… I don’t feel well.’
‘You’re all right, lass. I’m sure you’ve dealt with worse, aye?’
Gwen followed Rocco as he investigated like a police dog; there was a shift in the atmosphere, something didn’t feel right. The air felt close – stagnant. It felt like a pair of eyes were on them. A pile of cardboard boxes looked disturbed, thrown on top of each other haphazardly, like the person who put them there was in a hurry.
Rocco crossed the room and started picking up the boxes with caution. ‘You can’t be too careful with rats. Not all cute and fluffy. Evil fuckers they are and…’
Silence.
‘Rocco! What is it?’
A gasp, a sob.
‘Rocco. Talk to me for fuck’s sake! What is it?’
‘Stay back, Gwenny! Don’t come any closer.’
She ignored him and stepped forward, pushing past him as he tried to hold her back.
