Sedating Elaine, page 18
It was as good as she could do. She opened her eyes and looked round, as if she might find herself on the shores of Babylon. As it was, nothing happened, nothing at all. Except, of course, the main door swinging slowly closed on the breeze that wasn’t there, followed by a thousand-decibel thud and echo as it shut, trapping her in the dim vacancy of her half-assed prayer. She sat a moment in this so-obvious sign, decided she didn’t want it, apologised to the universe in general, and got up and ran to the door.
* * *
—
By the time she arrived home, a miracle had actually occurred: Elaine was awake. Of sorts. Deliriously, she responded to the sound of footsteps in the flat and the recognisable thud of Frances’ bag hitting the floor. She did not speak, or open her eyes, but made a noise like a dog in distress. Frances ran to the bedroom. Elaine’s head rolled towards her in a horrific lurching movement and she flopped a hand out in a gesture for Frances to take it. She did. It was the weight and texture of a slab of salmon.
“Frances,” she muttered.
“Elaine. I’m here.”
It was a relief, in so many ways, to find she was talking. Frances almost wanted to hug her. Unspoken confession hung from her lips like the kisses she couldn’t bring herself to give. She tried to look in Elaine’s eyes but they did not stay open long enough, just rolled back and forth, slits revealing moist whites, then closing again; she would not be awake for long. “Elaine,” she said, “what happened to the money, baby? I didn’t get the money.”
“Is it Friday?” Elaine mumbled.
“No, Elaine. It’s Saturday. And I really need the money, sweetie. It didn’t come through. What happened? Did you not do it? Did you forget?” She took Elaine’s head in her hands. She shook it a little side to side. “Elaine. Stay with me. When’s the money coming, baby?”
Elaine flopped her head back and breathed deeply. “You have to do something,” she said. “I’m late. So late. I had it all planned.”
“What? What is it?”
“Go to the second drawer.” She pointed a limp finger in the direction of the dresser. “At the back.”
Frances did as she said. Rummaging past underwear and a few jewellery boxes, she found a small bag. It was black, with a red heart on it, tied up with scarlet ribbon. “Have you found it?” Elaine said.
“I think so.”
“Bring it here,” she patted the bed.
Frances carried it to her, knowing, in a dawning and unavoidable way, what was about to happen. “It shouldn’t be like this,” Elaine said, “but it is what it is…”
Her words trailed off as her head rolled to the side and she snored, once, loudly, jolting awake again, eyes looking like they were filled with glue. “Open it,” she said.
Frances didn’t want to. In fact she wanted to throw the bag on the floor and run from the room, the flat, the city. She wanted to get on a train, run into the sea, swim out and just keep on going. This room seemed smaller every time she entered it, as if the walls were inching in.
“Go on.” Elaine patted the bed encouragingly.
Frances undid the bow and opened the bag, then removed the little box from inside. The heart motif was repeated on its lid. “Don’t be nervous,” Elaine said. Frances opened it.
It was the sort of ring she had imagined proposing to Adrienne with; she had, in fact, looked at a similar one several times in a nearby jeweller’s but was too afraid, too wary of scaring her off. A sapphire with two small diamonds either side. Elegant, grown up—not suited to her at all. She held the box in her hand and looked at it, not daring to touch it, as if she would decrease its value. In the stuffy shadows of the room, it shone.
“I love you,” Elaine whispered. “I’m sorry it’s this way. I had a plan, and now it’s late. I’m not sure what I’m saying or if this is even real. But I want you to know I love you. I do. I do. The one thing I know is that I love you.”
Frances stared down at the ring and said nothing.
“You look after me. I love you.”
The ring stared back like a single, expectant blue eye.
“Marry me?”
Perhaps she was too accustomed to lying, or perhaps she didn’t know what she was saying, perhaps she was so reminded of Adrienne that she heard her voice; whatever the reason, Frances stared at the ring as a voice very quietly said, “Yes.”
Elaine smiled. “I knew you would. I knew you were good. I love you.”
Then she stopped speaking. Frances put the box on the floor, and leant closer to Elaine, saying, “But, Elaine, what about the money? I need to know—it’s very important,” but no answer came.
She stood up and drifted out of the room, unaware that she was wearing a ring Elaine had paid several thousands of pounds for.
* * *
—
“Yo, Puppy.”
The Saturday night rush was on at Gabe’s and Frances worked amongst the chaos, feeling chaotic, feeling it made no difference anymore where she was, here or at home or anywhere, rather slowly and grimly returning the words You’re fucked, you’re fucked, you’re fucked. Before she’d left for work, she had removed the sheets from around Elaine and gagged at the sight—and smell—revealed. Whimpering apologies, she had shoved, pulled, hauled, and tugged Elaine and the sheets around so she could strip and clean both before remaking and reassembling them, then, unsure what to do with the evidence, she’d thrown the soiled items in the industrial bins outside the flats as she left. It was a scene she knew she’d never forget, and she was forced to acknowledge that her greater concern was now not that Elaine might awaken too soon or alone or stumble semiconscious out of an open window, but that she might fall deeper and deeper asleep until she couldn’t wake up at all. A situation once laughed at as impossible was nudging nightmarishly into view. She had arrived at pot-wash glad to get her hands deep into steaming water, tempted to stick her whole head in too.
“Yo, Puppy,” King shouted again from the kitchen doorway. “How’s your family?”
“What?”
“The sickness. The emergency.”
“Oh. Yeah. They’re okay, thanks.”
“Nothing catching, right? We don’t need no sickness round here.”
Nothing catching, yet she felt sick to her core.
She kept her head down and worked so fast even the chefs noticed, cheering her, clapping her on the back. An hour into service and her mind—wherever it was—was jolted back into the kitchen as a string of bellowed obscenities burst above the slamming, shouting, chopping sounds. Frances stopped and looked over but couldn’t see through the white coats, all suddenly swarming in the far corner, where the word “motherfucker!” was being yelled in increasing pain, almost to a scream. King was on the phone, demanding an ambulance, and amidst the confusion and noise and shouting, she saw a chef being led out, swiftly followed by barked orders to change stations, reorganise, come back together, get back to work. King came up to her and said, “Puppy, over here,” and dragged her away by the elbow, hands still dripping, to a surface covered in onions.
“What happened?” she said.
“Dude knocked a pan of boiling caramel over his hand. You never seen that before? It’s like lava. Nothing worse than a caramel burn. Nothing.”
“Why? Is he okay?”
“Stuff gets hotter than hell and it sticks to you like glue. But it’s burning you, right, so you try to wipe it off and what happens? It rips your fucking skin off. Just tears it clean off. We all gotta pull together tonight, okay? You can do it. Just chop. Nothing complicated. Chop, chop, chop. When you’re done, go to him.” He pointed to a chef. “He’ll tell you what to do. Now go, go, go,” and he left before she could say another word.
All around her people moved, yelled, snatched. They flung handfuls of garlic into pots, they stirred and sipped, and scraped chilli from chopping boards into frying pans. The ticket machine spluttered orders repeatedly into the room, accompanied by demands and shouts and “Yes, Chef.” Frances looked at the pile of onions with shaking hands, a sense that this was it, this was the edge. Years of being unable to cope had come to an end and it was here, now. She could just drag the knife across her wrist and join the chef in hospital. At least there she’d be looked after, at least she could get some rest.
“Oi,” the chef nearby shouted. “Chop, chop, my little friend.”
So she did. And she was surprised to discover she was quick at it and, despite everything else, she was almost enjoying it. Soon she was slicing peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes. Within an hour she had learnt to make two starters, and she was one of the voices in the chorus of “Yes, Chef.” Tea towel over her shoulder, spatula in hand, she was halfway through a dish when King came to her and said, “Outside. Quickly. Someone to see you. Little shit won’t go away.”
She froze. “Who is it?”
“How the hell should I know?” he snatched the knife out of her hand. “Just don’t be long, okay? I got my own work to do.”
She walked to the back door, which was propped open with a fire extinguisher and led to an alley. She stood, wiping her hands on the tea towel whilst also wringing them in panic as she saw Dom standing a few feet away. He exhaled cigarette smoke, pointed at her and grinned. “There you are.”
Frances stepped outside, just past the extinguisher, still in the light from the doorway. Dom approached her, flicking his cigarette aside.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “We said Monday. We agreed Monday.”
“No, you said Monday.”
“So did you. I’m sure you did.”
“Why the fuck would I agree to Monday? Because you promised it? Promises don’t mean shit.”
“So why are you here?” she asked again, more reluctantly, beginning to understand.
“Betty said you weren’t at home.”
Frances looked up at him. “She went there? To my flat?”
He nodded. “You’re lucky. She normally kicks the door in and ransacks the place. As it happens, she called me first, and I said I’d pop down and have a little word with you. Saturday night, I figured you’d be here.”
“She didn’t break in, then?” she said.
“No.”
“Did she hear anything?”
“Hear anything?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No,” he said. “But what does matter is the money. My money. And here you are, hiding.”
“I’m not hiding, I’m working.”
He held his hands out. “All the same to me.”
“I told you, I couldn’t get it. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’ll sort it out. I will. I promise. Just, give me ’til Monday, okay? What difference does it really make, two more days? Everything’s gone a bit crazy.”
He sighed and dropped his head, shaking it from side to side. Frances was about to apologise again when she found herself hurtling backwards between two huge waste bins. She fell to the floor, and looked up, shocked, to see Dom standing over her. “What are you doing?” She coughed.
Dom squatted down before her, elbows on knees, and looked straight into her eyes. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and said, “It’s no fucking joke, you know? This is serious shit now. You know I don’t deal with the women, but Betty will fuck you up. No kidding, you little shit, she will fucking maim you. Her repertoire is quite advanced these days. I wonder if you know what it’s like to have a hot curling tong shoved up your ass like a poker? Just imagine that. What do you think it feels like? And she ain’t quick about it, you know. She takes her time.”
“I’m sorry—” Frances began, but Dom held up a finger to silence her.
“I don’t want to hear it. I’m not your problem now. She is. Know what I’m saying? Now, I don’t care if you rob, steal, kill, whatever. I don’t care if you sell your whole fucking family. All I am interested in is my money. Understand?”
Frances nodded. “I can get it. Soon. I promise,” she said.
Dom’s head tilted to the side and he held her stare as he took a cigarette from his top pocket. He lit it, and exhaled with a sigh. “I hate all this,” he said. “I truly do. It’s not me, y’know? It’s unfortunate. But it’s part of the business, and if you buy from me you’re part of the business, and if you’re part of the business you need to help keep profits flowing. Capiche?”
Frances nodded, too terrified to speak. Dom looked like a different person, a total stranger. The fire behind his eyes, which she had always thought enigmatic, the hunched way he walked, the intensity of his face, all shifted into a person filled with darkness. Like a wolf, he snarled over her.
“Puppy,” King’s voice called out. “What you doing?” He appeared as a shadow in the doorway, and in two paces was towering above them.
Frances and Dom looked at each other, then Dom stood and backed away. Frances got shakily to her feet and brushed herself down. King looked from one to the other. “You okay?” he said to her, scowling at Dom.
“Yeah,” she replied.
“Can I help you?” he said to Dom, stepping out into the alleyway, fists by his sides.
Dom continued to smoke slowly, then turned and walked away. Frances rushed back indoors and leant against the wall, catching her breath.
“Who was that?” King said. “Are you alright? What did he want?”
She put her hands on her knees and tried to catch her breath. “I didn’t know he was like that,” she said. “I knew he was pissed off, but not like that. He looked like he wanted to kill me.”
“Some boyfriend of yours? He needs sorting out?”
“No, no. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“People always show their true colours, remember that. Never trust people. You only think you know them. Get a dog—you count on them to save your life and train them to bite the bollocks off scum like that. You want some water?”
She shook her head no. He looked out into the alleyway, checking no one was there, then closed the door and said, “Come on. Work to do. You’re doing well, Puppy, they’ve all been saying so—you’re a natural in there. Don’t worry about that streak of piss. He comes back here and I’ll sling that caramel in his fucking face.”
11
Five o’clock the next morning and Frances was watching out the window. She had been awake all night, expecting Betty to turn up with her curling tongs. Even alcohol did not seem to help her now. No matter how much she drank, she couldn’t get drunk; reality kept barging its way back in. Elaine had not moved and Frances began to fret about malnutrition and bedsores and brain damage. She wondered at what point she should ring an ambulance but had palpitations at the very thought. Three days in stasis—Dom had said so. She should wake up soon. Surely she would wake up soon. The whole plan had gone so horribly wrong.
For several hours she paced by the window, not knowing if she should stand guard or run away. She barely factored Elaine into the equation anymore; there seemed nothing she could do about her, so she could plan only for herself. Stay, and if Elaine awoke, she might be able to get the money, but if she didn’t stay and Betty came knocking, she was terrified to think what might happen. If she ran they might break in, find Elaine in bed unconscious, or perhaps she would awake to find two strangers there. That said, she could hardly protect Elaine and herself from Dom and Betty. Perhaps she could hide in amongst the jumble of boxes and mess, clutch a santoku, wait and see what happened. She had asked King to lend her some money—he said he wished he could but he was skint himself. She’d called several loan companies in the night, twenty-four-hour hotlines promising to magic you money instantly, but none could send her any until Monday. She had rifled through Elaine’s possessions, further obliterating the place, hunting for bank details or cash, anything that might help. At five o’clock she gave up and took up guard post at the living room window, wondering how it would end.
At eight o’clock her heart jumped at a knock at the door, until she recognised it, and then her pounding heart sank. Rat-a-tat-tat of a gloved knuckle. Rat-a-tat-tat. Then it came again—rat-a-tat-tat—followed by a warble: “Elaine, sweetie, let Mummy in. Your father is here as well. Elaine? Darling? We’re not leaving ’til you let us in, I mean it.” Rat-a-tat-tat.
Frances ran to the bedroom to see if Elaine had miraculously awoken. She hadn’t. She tucked the sheets in around her and frantically attempted to tidy the room, stuffing paperwork and clothing into drawers, as if a neater appearance might detract from the unconscious body in the bed. She shoved plates and books under the bed and opened the window. She had kept it closed in case Elaine awoke in a daze and fell out of it, but the result had been a stifling, airless, sweaty room which was beginning to smell distinctly rancid. The knocking persisted, getting louder now, as were the warbles: Rat-a-tat-tat! “Elaine!” Frances sprayed some antiperspirant around the room and then over herself. Then, smoothing her hair, she went to the door.
Despite her preparations, she did not intend to let this woman in the flat, let alone anywhere near her bedroom, but she remembered the assertiveness of Mrs. Langthorn, so Mr. Langthorn was probably a force to be reckoned with. Most importantly, she must try to act completely normal, whatever that was. She opened the door with a huge grin.
“Jennifer, hello again! How lovely to see you.”
The woman had clearly been expecting her daughter; a sickly, simpering smile vanished from her face. It was as if she’d forgotten that Frances lived there.
“Oh,” she said. “Lewis, this is the person I was telling you about,” and she held her hand out as if to say “Exhibit A.” “I’ve come to speak to my daughter. Our daughter. Is she alright? I’ve been ringing her phone but there’s no answer, which is most unlike her. We’ve been ever so worried. I would have telephoned ahead to say we were coming, of course, but, well, how could I?”
