Make Me Clean, page 16
Elsie continues as if she’s not heard her. ‘He wanted kids at first – said he wanted ’em. But he was a Jaffa. Fired blanks. Him, not me, though I took the blame for it. So, cats.’
She lists a dozen or so cats she’s had over the years before trailing off. Maria wonders how Elsie can she remember all the cats’ names, but one night last week she’d tried to clean her teeth with her comb.
As Maria helps her dress, she sees the remains of bruises on Elsie’s arms where Nick grabbed her. They’re much fainter now, but it takes so long for them to heal at this age. Maria remembers the bruises decorating her gran’s face after the fall and pushes the picture out of her mind.
Fur grows back, bruises fade – eventually. But how long will it take before the images of what caused those marks on Elsie’s delicate skin disappear?
‘Vi! Violet?’ shouts Elsie, even though Maria’s right next to her.
Maria shouts back, ‘Yes! Yes, love! What do you want?’ and Elsie giggles.
Comfort says it’s sometimes easier to play along. What else would she do? Remind Elsie that her mother, her father, her sister Violet are all dead, long gone, just so she can relive the pain of losing them again and again?
‘Let’s have a dance, Vi!’
Maria goes through to the kitchen to turn on the radio.
Elsie whoops as she hears ‘You’re The One That I Want’, joining in on the ‘Ooh, ooh, oohs’. Maria goes back to finish helping her dress, to see Elsie bopping around the room, shimmying her bony bum in time to the beat. The hip above one cheek is adorned with a tattoo of the CND symbol, the other with the Anti-Nazi League arrow.
Seeing her so happy makes Maria smile – a small, weary, sad smile, but a smile, nevertheless.
‘What do you fancy for breakfast?’ she asks. There’s been a recent fatwa against porridge.
‘That bloke off of Call the Midwife,’ grins Elsie.
‘Behave!’
She thinks for a moment then says, ‘Tapioca.’
‘Isn’t that a kind of fish,’ replies Maria.
‘You behave,’ says Elsie.
After breakfast, out of the blue, Elsie pauses with her mug halfway to her lips and says, ‘She’s gone, ain’t she?’
‘Who?’ asks Maria.
‘Our Vi. My Violet.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ says Maria.
Elsie sighs heavily and says, ‘Not your fault, darlin’. You live long enough, you lose everyone you love.’
35
Mid-afternoon, Elsie informs her that she’s ‘cream crackered’ and Maria takes her through to her bed so she can have a nap. She fully intends to get the washing on, but she sits on the sofa – just for a minute – and the lack of sleep the previous night gets to her. She feels things coming towards her as sleep beckons, but there’s nothing she can do. Exhaustion always wins.
And suddenly she’s under, slipping back to that Monday night here at Elsie’s: the night of the owl; the night of the fox’s scream; the night of the bleeding carcass of Elsie’s husband.
She’d only popped to the local shop to get fresh milk. She’d joked to Elsie that they should have bought shares in a cow …
*
Maria let herself in and immediately knew something wasn’t right. She paused, waiting to make sense of the sounds she was hearing.
A soft cry. Elsie. Another deeper voice. Then a yelp.
Maria rushed through to the bedroom they’d made up for Elsie next to the kitchen. The little desk by the sofa bed was on its side, pens scattered on the carpet, and the letter opener, blotter and cat-shaped stapler were strewn across her duvet, envelopes and paperwork flung all over the place.
Nick was gripping Elsie by her upper arm. The old woman was whimpering.
‘Think you’re so clever, don’t you?’ he sneered. ‘This is my gaff as much as yours. I’m entitled.’
‘It’s my home,’ bleated Elsie. ‘Mine! Get out of here! Go on – do one!’
‘You’re fucking loopy,’ he laughed. ‘Full-on loony tunes. You belong in a bleeding institution! You might have bought this house, but until we’re divorced, sweetheart, I’ve got as much right to live here as you.’
Maria saw a rip in the seam of Elsie’s nightie where Nick was grabbing the material so tightly.
She shouted, ‘Get off her! Leave her alone!’
Nick slung Elsie away from him and she staggered back and fell on the bed. He span round to face Maria.
‘What’s it to you?’ He scowled. He’d obviously been drinking.
Maria dodged round him and knelt by Elsie.
‘Are you hurt, love?’
She shook her head.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Don’t let him take my money,’ whispered Elsie. ‘The bastard’s trying to steal my stuff.’
It was unlikely that Elsie had much worth stealing, but whatever Nick was actually doing, Elsie was distraught.
Nick ignored them both and started pulling out the desk drawers, rifling through letters and notebooks and files.
Harry and Spotty both wandered into the room, curious to see what was happening.
‘Can you go, please?’ said Maria, trying a different, more pleading tone. ‘You’re upsetting her.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with you,’ he snapped. He took an official-looking envelope and pushed himself up to standing but tripped over Harry in the process.
‘Fucking …’
He grabbed Spotty, who was blameless, hauled her up by the scruff of her neck, and threw her out the door. Harry scarpered after her.
‘Things are going to change round here. All these shitbag cats can go for starters,’ he threatened. ‘And she can fuck off and all!’ He jabbed a finger at Maria.
‘You leave Maria alone,’ said Elsie.
‘Why? You think she gives a toss about you? She’s only after your dosh.’ He snapped at Maria, ‘Fucking cuckoo!’ Then he smiled, slow and nasty, as he turned back to Elsie. ‘You either give me my half, buy me out, my dearest darling, or I’m moving back in.’
‘No! You can’t!’ shouted Elsie. ‘I don’t want you here!’
‘Try and fucking stop me you—’
Everything else seemed to happen at once—
Elsie grabbed the glass of water Maria had left next to her bed and threw it at Nick’s head. It missed.
Nick went for Elsie, lunging across her on the bed.
Before Maria knew what she intended, she’d grabbed his walking stick from the floor where he’d dropped it and started hitting his shoulder, trying to get him off Elsie, and he was roaring and trying to hit his wife, and Maria swung wildly and caught him hard across the side of his ear.
He crumpled and rolled off the side of the bed.
Elsie wailed, ‘Who is he? Who is he?’
Maria dropped the stick and sat on the bed, trying to soothe Elsie. She turned too late. The punch caught the back of her head and dizzied her for a second. Then a flurry of jabs and obscenities rained down on her.
Dazed, she brought her arms up to protect her head from the blows. He might have a rubbish knee, but Nick had been a boxer in his youth. She tried to think where his walking stick had fallen so she could hit him again.
But suddenly, like he’d been shot, it stopped.
Maria inhaled, forced her eyes open. Wished she hadn’t.
Elsie was kneeling up on the bed making guttural sounds that might have been a growl.
Nick had reared back away from her, hands limp by his sides, his face red on one side where Maria had caught him with the walking stick, his mouth hanging slack. One eye was wide open in surprise.
And Elsie’s ancient letter opener from the little desk next to her bed was deep in the other eye socket. Rammed in. Right up to the hilt.
36
Her phone wakes her. Her neck is stiff from where she’s dozed off on Elsie’s sofa.
I need to see you. ASAP! It’s Brian.
The phone buzzes again: We need to talk!!!
She sighs. One of the most terrifying sentences in the English language.
I’ll be right there, she replies. She doesn’t bother asking what it’s about, but she adds three kisses just in case it’s not what she thinks.
Elsie is happy to go next door and watch Some Like It Hot with the widow for the umpteenth time – it’s their favourite film.
Maria walks quickly, trying to leave the vile images from the night Nick died behind her. She’s sweating by the time she arrives at Brian’s, but there’s no offer of tea, which immediately tells her something is seriously wrong before his face does. He brings her through to the living room and sits with his legs crossed on his beanbag, which is no mean feat.
‘Everything okay?’ she asks. ‘You and Alex fine? Did he get that new job he went for?’
Snippets from other people’s lives usually fall out of Maria’s head as soon as she leaves the homes she cleans. In the same way, ask them, and few of her clients would even know her surname. But Brian is different. She’s genuinely interested, and she genuinely cares.
She also wants to delay the inevitable.
‘What did you do to him?’ he asks. His tone is accusing.
‘Who?’ She swallows, turns away, rummages in her bag so she doesn’t have to face him. Of course she knows who he’s talking about.
‘They found high levels of psilocybin in his toxicology report.’
Maria braces. She feels sick.
‘What?’
‘The police came round here.’
Oh God. She considers denying everything. She can’t risk admitting it to anyone, even Brian – where the hell could that lead?
‘I don’t know—’
‘Alex saw you.’
‘Saw me what?’ she challenges.
‘You gave him those vol-au-vents.’
Bugger. ‘And …?’
‘Come on, Maria! Mushroom bloody vol-au-vents. What the bloody hell have you done?’ She’s never seen Brian angry before.
She pauses, considers, then says, ‘It was an accident.’
It wasn’t, though – not really. She caused it.
‘You didn’t give those to anyone else, did you?’
‘Of course not!’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ says Brian.
‘But you hated him. And I didn’t throw him under that truck.’
‘You might as well have.’
True. She asks, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve not decided yet.’ He looks scared. Then his eyes catch hers and his expression changes.
She’s never seen him look at her this way before – like he doesn’t trust her; like he doesn’t know her at all.
This is what she feared. She has enough trouble reconciling the way she feels about her own actions, let alone guessing how Brian might reconsider his friendship with someone who does something like that.
She thinks about saying it’s good that his boss is dead – the man was scum. She did Brian a favour. But she decides it’s probably better not to say a word.
There’s a long prickly silence.
‘You didn’t consider that the police might have me down as a suspect, being as it was my bloody party?’
‘No! Of course not!’ It honestly hadn’t occurred to her. How stupid! Too self-obsessed.
‘They didn’t say as much but that’s what they were angling towards. I’ve not been able to sleep. I’ve been sick with worry.’
‘I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean—’
‘It’s a bit late to be sorry now.’
‘I thought I was helping you. I am so—’
‘Helping me! You’re joking, aren’t you? I didn’t ask you to poison him, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Well, he didn’t die of poisoning,’ she reasons. She waits, watching the set of Brian’s purple eyebrows for clues. ‘You’re not going to say anything, are you?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Oh God, please don’t! Please—’
‘I don’t want to. Alex doesn’t want me to. But what am I supposed to do if they come back asking more questions – piecing together his movements the night he died? Everyone knew I hated him!’
They regard each other warily.
‘Do you still want me to clean?’ she asks. As questions go, that’s the most innocuous she can think of.
‘I can’t think about that right now,’ says Brian.
‘Great. So I’m now going to lose my job over an accident.’ She exhales heavily.
‘That’s your takeaway from this? Please!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t sound sorry enough! You don’t sound sorry at all!’
That’s shamingly accurate. She says, ‘I’d better go.’
‘Yes,’ says Brian. He shakes his head. ‘I cannot believe you!’
He doesn’t say goodbye. She tries to close the door as quietly as she can on her way out, although she actually wants to slam it shut.
She storms back to Elsie’s, stomping along pavements, dodging round other walkers. She refuses to feel guilty about Brian’s boss. He’s not worth it!
Her conscience is clear!
The same with Nick, too – it was self-defence, wasn’t it? She was trying to protect Elsie, saving her. She will not feel guilty! She shouldn’t feel guilty about any of it!
37
Whether she’s awake or asleep, Maria can’t get the images out of her head …
Elsie on the bed, up on her knees, snarling.
Nick like a horror-show unicorn, the letter opener sticking out of one eye, the other furious.
Maria couldn’t breathe for a second, immobilised by fear.
Elsie made a low growl then slumped back against the wall.
Nick stood silent, swaying slightly. Then he roared, a wounded animal noise, and took two staggering steps, lurching towards Maria, a vicious zombie, one eye wide with violence, intent on murder.
She grabbed the walking sick from the floor, drew back and swung it at his head like a golfer. Not like the Crazy Golf at Skegness – hard.
Nick keeled over like a felled redwood, sending everything in his wake flying. And she might have stopped at that point. Called the police. Called an ambulance. He was down. It would have been self-defence, then.
But she didn’t. Couldn’t.
She stood over him, and she drew back the stick and hit him again. She had to make sure he’d stay down. She had to protect Elsie. And she got into a rhythm, whacking and whacking him, smashing his skull with the walking stick again and again. Just to be really, really sure.
At some point she must have stopped – and then there was no more movement.
Elsie was keening softly to herself on the bed, tugging at her nightie, trying to pull it down over her knees. She was oblivious of Maria standing panting over Nick’s body on the floor. Maria couldn’t help but worry how Elsie’s knees would feel in the morning – a stupid thought.
Maria went over to put her hand on the old woman’s arm.
‘Elsie? Are you okay? Did he hurt you?’
‘I’ve killed him! I’ve bloody killed him!’ gasped Elsie.
We’ve killed him, thought Maria.
She dropped the walking stick, sat on the bed, and put her arms around Elsie. She hugged her against her chest, rocking her as she trembled, repeating, ‘It’ll be all right. It’s all right,’ saying it for herself as much as the newly bereaved wife, until she felt the old woman’s breathing calm and her muscles start to relax.
‘I’ve killed him,’ whispered Elsie.
‘No,’ said Maria. Although perhaps the letter opener had pierced his brain. Perhaps his movements had been involuntary, like a headless chicken. But she’d had to be sure. ‘No, I killed him,’ she said.
And she was glad.
When Maria’s anger subsided, the first clear thought that came to her was that she had to clean up the mess. She reassured Elsie as best she could. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll sort it. It’s all okay.’
Nothing could be further from okay.
When Elsie finally rested against Maria, heavier with sleep, she gently lay her down and tucked the duvet around her, cocooning her against the night and the sight of her husband seeping blood and fluids on the floor right next to her bed.
Then she dragged the old man through to the kitchen, in case Elsie woke and freaked out. The cats skittered and fled for their lives, thundering through the catflap like demented cannonballs, which for once, was an appropriate response.
She hoicked Nick’s body on to his chair to get him out of the way and on automatic pilot she ran the hot tap, scrabbling for bleach and cloths under the sink, then she started to clean the floor next to Elsie’s bed. She didn’t think the rug could be saved, but she did manage to get the blood stains out of the carpet. The scrubbing felt almost normal. But when she returned to the kitchen, after ten minutes or so mopping, she had to put a tea towel over the old man’s head, because she couldn’t bear the sight of that one accusing eye.
And then she buried the old bastard. She threw the walking stick and the rug in with him. The letter opener was still attached.
38
If it wasn’t for Elsie, Maria might flee the country. She’s thought about that a lot since Nick’s death. She thinks about it again now – the police sniffing round Brian’s and his face giving her no reassurance he won’t tell them everything.
But wherever you go, you take yourself. She learned that when she went to Spain with Joby—
After his brother’s death, Joby would clutch Maria round her waist and sob in her lap.
‘We’ll have a babby. A boy, another boy, yes? Our first son is up there with his Uncle Anthony now. But we’ll have another boy.’
Nothing was more of a turn-off.
If she did have a baby with him, her husband – this man she didn’t really know – she’d be stuck with this sentimental shite, stuck on this grim site, with this life. The thought appalled her.
But finally, Joby arranged his face into a rictus grin, and he agreed to take Maria away for a little holiday. He told his mother he needed to get away to clear his head.
