Make Me Clean, page 14
They were on the pavement outside the pub – just travellers, no locals. Joby started dancing, showing off stupid moves. The dark-haired girl clapped and cheered, like he was the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen. The song blaring out of the open pub doors was some old Rod Stewart number from the time he wasn’t an embarrassment. Maria turned to Anthony and held his hand, and then they were dancing and laughing together. She started singing along, although the only words she knew were, ‘Baby Jane’ and Anthony’s hands were sneaking all over her and she didn’t push them away very hard.
And the next thing was, Anthony flew. His head and body catapulted back as his feet took off from the ground, and he was flung up and away from her, and before she could work out why, Joby was yelling at her, right up in her face, and she was shocked into silence.
She couldn’t remember much about getting back to the trailer.
She woke to screaming.
An Appleby-sized hangover. Maria was so shaky she almost fell over as she tried to pull on her leggings.
She heard the sirens before she got down to the river and then she was running before she really knew what she was seeing—
Joby and Anthony lying on the dewy grass.
Lily screeching and wailing and hitting out at anyone within hitting distance.
Mist billowing up from the River Eden.
Paramedics kneeling like they were praying.
Joby couldn’t speak. Maria had to piece together the story from the others.
The brothers had been drinking, obviously – it had carried on all night – and Anthony had been on some other stuff as well. He should never have got on any horse, let alone the flighty mare. He should never have gone in the water. Joby should have stopped his little brother, he should have kept him safe, it was his fault this had happened – this shouted by Lily, hysterical, being dragged off Anthony by the paramedic, the light of the police car flashing blue across the grass, a policewoman trying to keep the others back from the scene; two officers grappling with Uncle Nugget, who had no idea what to do apart from kick off.
Anthony’s on-off girlfriend was surrounded by half a dozen teenagers like herself. Sobbing. Loving her time in the spotlight.
And Anthony just lay there. Absolutely still.
Rosa led Chanel away while the body was lifted, and questions were asked. Lily wailed at Joby, and Maria was left alone. She couldn’t stop shaking – from cold, from shock, from the fear that she was somehow responsible. She caused the fight. What had happened between Joby and Anthony afterwards? How had Anthony ended up dead?
She picked her way through the caravans and trucks and litter and managed to get back to the wagon.
When Joby eventually came in, much, much later, wrapped in silver foil to keep him warm, he wouldn’t look at her.
She asked how Lily was, how his dad was.
‘Bad,’ is all he said.
He wouldn’t touch her.
After they got back from Appleby, she lay in bed at night trying to sync her breathing with his, afraid to reach for him. He radiated anger, even when he fell asleep. If her hand touched his back, his leg, he shrugged her off, grunted and pushed her away. If she tried to talk to him, he yanked back the duvet, climbed over her, and stomped over to the fridge to grab another beer. Sometimes she cried quietly, so her tears slid into her ears.
Eventually it came out. Four drinks down one Friday night, Joby admitted there was a split second when he might have saved Anthony, if only he’d acted sooner. That hesitation to go into the water after him cost his brother his life.
‘And we’d fought that night, you know. Proper fought. Because … Then—I could have saved him. It’s my fault. My own brother. My own blood.’
After he said that the first time, he said it over and over.
‘I killed him.’
We killed him, thought Maria.
The first time they did it after was vicious. She grabbed at him, clung to him, bit him, angry that he’d made her wait so long. It was over too quickly.
She had to finish herself off as he snored.
It became the pattern.
Once, very drunk, he sobbed that her not getting pregnant again was a punishment for what he’d done.
That would have been the time either to tell him the truth – that she didn’t want a baby, not yet anyway; she wanted to travel first – or to throw away her pills. She did neither.
A month-long wake. Lily went a bit wild. She burned all of Anthony’s possessions, piling them on to a huge bonfire in the middle of the site. Maria felt it was a waste – she should have taken the stuff to the charity shop so they’d be of use to some poor sods who couldn’t afford a warm work shirt, good boots.
One Sunday afternoon, Lily banged on Joby’s door and as Maria opened up, she punched her in the face. Maria was amazed that she did, in fact, see stars. As she wrapped ice cubes in a tea towel to put on her jaw, Joby stormed round to his mum’s wagon to have a go. Maria ran after him and watched as he shouted at his mother through the door she’d locked against him, banging and pulling until he tore the door right off its hinges, and Lily came out then, howling, ‘I’m your family! Me! Not her. She’s cursed, that one!’
‘She had nothing to do with it,’ shouted Joby, gripping his mother’s arms by her side so she could do no more harm. ‘It was me. It’s my fault our Anthony’s gone, not hers!’
Maria stood rooted to the spot.
‘All she’s done is bring bad luck, that fucking gorger bitch. I told you it’d be bad. The signs showed you. You should never have married out,’ screamed her mother-in-law in reply.
Maria had already lost her grandmother, her dad, her baby. She’d already lost one mother, and now, with a sinking feeling, she realised she’d lost another.
Silently she agreed that yes, she was indeed cursed. It was what she deserved, these losses. And her heart wizened to the size of a crab apple.
31
She sees Balogan again on the Friday night. She’s just finished when he lets himself into his flat looking as tired as she feels.
‘Maria,’ he acknowledges her. He comes up closer. ‘These shadows?’ he indicates the dark circles under her eyes. He asks nothing more, but she finds herself telling him.
‘The old lady I look after. Elsie. One of her cats has been ill. I didn’t sleep well.’
‘You dealt with it?’
‘Yes.’
‘When our dogs became ill, my father would deal with it.’ He makes a swift throat-slitting gesture.
‘Oh, God. No! Not like that! The cat’s in hospital.’
‘There is a hospital for cats?’ He shakes his head as if this is ridiculous. ‘For dogs, I understand. They are working animals. But a hospital for cats?’
He’s making fun of her.
Sweetie was rushed to the vets when she suddenly stopped eating. Del had to drive the cat across to the animal hospital for an emergency operation. A blockage. Elsie is distraught.
Maria asks Balogan, ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘A coffee. Come. We will attempt to elevate your last attempt.’
He leads her into the kitchen and shows her how to use the sleek coffee machine. She’s acutely aware that he is standing close to her, his meaty arm brushing her own.
They take their drinks through. Maria sits on the sofa and Balogan stands by the window.
He remains looking at the view for a long time. Maria doesn’t move after she’s finished her coffee. She doesn’t want to disturb his stillness. She doesn’t reach for her rucksack, although she’s ready to set off. He seems sad.
Eventually he says, ‘There was no hospital when my mother … was ill.’
Maria remains silent, unsure of what he is telling her. After a pause, Balogan walks across to sit next to her, sinking into the cushions with a sigh.
‘My father was a big man.’
‘Like you?’
‘I mean he was a big man in a small town. He – how do you say? – looms large? In our home. He was a strong man, a hard man in some respects, but also a good man. Most of the time. He came to Sweden a refugee. With nothing. I was born there. We had very little when I was growing up.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Do?’
‘What was his job?’ she asks.
‘He ran dog sled teams – trained them. I helped. This is before these sorts of dogs became pets.’ He says the word as if he’s disgusted with the concept. ‘I see so many of these dogs in London. These animals need to run for many miles every day. It is no life for them here! They are working dogs! They are bred to work.’ More quietly he says, ‘We are all bred to work.’
Maria notices how he sips his coffee. He has nice manners. No rough edges like her own father, or Joby. It surprises her in such a large man.
‘Perhaps we would all do different work if we had a choice.’ It seems he is talking to himself. He turns to her. ‘What are you looking for, Maria?’ he asks.
She glances around the room, unsure what she might have mislaid.
‘I mean, in life?’ He smiles a tired smile.
She shrugs. She doesn’t feel comfortable acknowledging her ambitions out loud.
‘What do you do in your spare time?’
‘What spare time?’ Her laugh sounds bitter.
‘What do you do when you are not cleaning?’
‘I look after Elsie.’
‘When you are not working?’
‘Elsie’s not work. Well … not really.’
He takes another sip of his coffee, and his leg relaxes against hers. Maria surreptitiously inches away from him. The closeness in the kitchen was comfortable – this contact is too intimate.
‘My mother had big hopes,’ he confides. ‘She wanted the big love story. She wanted too much, but she was destined for a small life.’
Me too, thinks Maria.
‘It was difficult with my father. Not all people welcomed him as a refugee. And not all people were happy that the Swedish girl married the foreign man. He had friends, of course. I am named for one of those friends, a fellow refugee. He was from Nigeria. But there were many people who were not friends.’ He sighs heavily and adds, ‘It weighed greatly on my mother. She died twelve years ago. Today.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Maria.
He stands again and walks to look out the window. He is very still. He says quietly, ‘She killed herself.’
Maria hears herself say, ‘Oh!’ She can offer him no more because his pain is too much for her to deal with on top of her own: the harrowing memories of Joby; the current, barely controlled panic about Nick’s body; the worry she’ll be linked to the death of Brian’s boss; her fears for Elsie and the future.
If Balogan wants her as a friend, she’s already proving a bad one.
Both of them are silent for a time. Finally, she gets to her feet, and leaves with a small, ‘Goodbye.’
The lift opens on the ground floor and Balogan’s neighbour, Cass, is waiting.
‘Hi,’ says the girl.
‘Morning,’ replies Maria.
Cass doesn’t move so the pair stand for a couple of seconds before the lift doors start to close again.
‘Would you like to get that coffee with me today?’ asks Cass. The way she asks is … needy.
Maria hesitates. Del is staying with Elsie today for a change. He’ll probably just dump her at the community centre – using the volunteers there as unpaid babysitters, despite it being his day off. When was the last time she had any time to herself?
‘Not upstairs,’ adds Cass. ‘Somewhere else? My treat! Do you mind walking?’
Maria wants to walk to clear her head. ‘Okay.’
Cass’s face brightens.
They walk along the river. It’s dark and windy and cold, but lights are reflecting in the Thames – always the party girl, the Thames – which gives the night a festive air. They cross at Waterloo.
Cass talks the entire way, telling Maria about the gigs.
‘There’s not, like, a lot of money in the sort of stuff we do – kind of a jazz-funk fusion – but I love it. Performing, you know. Small venues. We do have a following, though. Mal’s really famous in certain circles!’
Jazz-funk fusion – no wonder there’s no money in it, thinks Maria.
It’s relaxing for Maria to listen to the girl chatter on. She’s not required to ask questions because Cass hardly takes a breath, excitable as a child.
‘We have all sorts of influences – you probably heard the drum and bass, yeah? Soz! And Mal’s parties! Legendary!’
Cass leads Maria through to Soho, where she buys them both a coffee in a small café that is already surprisingly busy. The Friday-night crowd still out from clubbing are firing themselves up on caffeine for the next leg of their journey, night cleaners like Maria are trudging their way home, and the early shift workers are plodding the other way.
‘Do you want to come to one of our gigs? I can get you tickets.’
‘Perhaps,’ says Maria, with zero enthusiasm. Seeing how Cass’s face falls, she adds, ‘It’s just that cleaning isn’t my only job. I usually care for an old lady overnight, so it’s hard for me to get away.’
‘Oh,’ says Cass. ‘Bummer.’
She chatters on. Then Cass buys another coffee.
Maria takes advantage of a short pause to ask, ‘What’s the story with you and Mal?’
‘What? The arguments?’ Cass laughs. ‘Oh, it’s always been that way. Don’t worry about it. He’s, like, got a few problems, you know – anger issues – but haven’t we all!’ She sounds almost jolly. ‘It’s good of him to let me stay there really,’ she continues. ‘I cramp his style, you know? But he only wants what’s best for me, and—’
Before Maria can ask what she actually wants to ask – Does he hurt you? – her phone buzzes. It’s Del. Ridiculously early for him. Her heart sinks.
She answers, then says to Cass, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to get back. Elsie, my old lady, has flooded the kitchen.’
As crises go, this is hardly a big one – and it’s irritating that Del bothered calling her at all – but Maria is keen to get away. She finds it uncomfortable listening to Cass when she’s sharing so much, and she’s giving her nothing in return.
As Maria gathers her things, Cass stands and flings her arms around her.
‘Thank you for this,’ says the girl, as if having a coffee together is a marvellous gift Maria has bestowed upon her. ‘It’s, like, such a relief talking to someone, you know. Mal’s friends are all well old.’
‘It was nice,’ says Maria, disentangling.
‘Can we do it again?’
‘Of course.’
She doesn’t really mean it. She hurries away.
On the bus back her thoughts drift. Along with her more pressing anxieties, she fears for young Cass. An older, controlling man with anger issues – she knows where that can lead.
32
Del leaves as soon as Maria arrives back at Elsie’s.
After Maria has cleared up in the kitchen, she settles Elsie with Spotty on her lap.
‘Don’t you worry, your sister will be coming home,’ croons Elsie. ‘Let’s hope she’ll be back soon.’
Maria gives up on any idea of a sleep and pours herself a tea. If she’s lucky, she’ll get to bed early tonight. She watches the old woman stroke Spotty’s fur with the cat brush, both cat and owner mesmerised by the action.
Elsie’s face relaxes.
Maria is far from relaxed. One man lies rotting in the back garden, just a few metres away from where she sits. Another has been ground to a pulp beneath the wheels of an articulated lorry. Yet another is buried beneath a pile of rocks in Spain.
Whether Sweetie survives her operation is the least of her worries.
It might be tiredness, it might be the coffees she’s already drunk, but Maria is jittery. She imagines what it might be like to do a runner. If it wasn’t for Elsie, she’d do it in a heartbeat – pack and leave London; disappear. She craves some sense of freedom. Everything is piling on top of her and she can’t bear it much longer – she might scream, or lash out, or throw herself under the wheels of a lorry.
Apart from that, it’s an uneventful day.
Del collects Sweetie from the animal hospital that afternoon and brings her home. Elsie dissolves into noisy tears, crooning to the cat how much she’s missed her. ‘Lovely girl, my lovely girl,’ she says over and over.
The cat stares at them from her plastic prison – probably imagining ripping out their throats, given her expression.
‘Let her out. Let her out!’ bleats Elsie. ‘I know just how you feel, mate. My poor baby.’
Sweetie looks more than a little discombobulated when Maria opens her carrier. She emerges, tries to leap up, misses the chair, then crouches on the floor, confused.
‘She’s off her tits!’ says Elsie.
Maria lifts the cat on to the kitchen table so Elsie can stroke her, ignoring the face Del makes.
‘Look, they’ve shaved her! Look at my Sweetie’s belly! Oi! Have you done this?’ she challenges Del.
‘Jesus wept,’ he mutters. ‘I can’t. I just can’t. She’s doing my head in.’
‘Bugger off then!’ snaps Elsie.
‘You sort this, yeah?’ says Del. This is directed at Maria.
‘I’ll sort it,’ agrees Maria.
Del does as Elsie suggests and buggers off.
‘My Sweetie,’ says Elsie, gently picking up the cat’s front paws and nuzzling into her neck, squashing the cone of shame. ‘Me and Maria and Spotty and Harry, we’ve missed you so much. And …’ She trails off. Maria wonders if she’s forgotten, but Elsie adds, ‘And Boris! We’ve all missed you, girl!’ Then she nods towards the garden and says, ‘No one misses him.’
Maria winces. Sometimes Elsie remembers too much.
Elsie turns as she hears Del’s car start in the drive. ‘Who was he? That bloke?’ she asks as he drives away.
She continues stroking Sweetie, who eventually purrs a greeting. It looks like Elsie might purr too.
Maria goes up to shower, leaving Elsie to her reunion. When she gets back downstairs Elsie’s still gazing adoringly at the cat, who sits on the table, gazing back. The scene might have been one of quiet meditation, except for the fact that Elsie is pouring milk into an overflowing tea mug and it’s dribbling on to the floor. Maria takes the carton from Elsie’s hand and wipes up the mess.
