A Whisper to the Living (19 page)

The door is opening. He walks across the room and sits on the edge of the lavatory seat, his eyes glued to my breasts. The end of the poker digs into my calf. But this is better than leaving it in the space, better than hoping for the chance to kneel, reach over and grab it. What if he drags me out of the bath right away? This time, he intends to do it, all of it, because he has received my unspoken message. I soap my body slowly, following the plan’s minutest detail.

He is coming towards me now. He kicks off his shoes, tears away trousers, shirt, pants. The muscles on his arms are like great ropes, his chest is broad and covered in ugly black hair. I try to smile, try not to look at that horrible threatening thing that sticks out in front of him, blue-veined and swollen.

‘Get up. On your knees,’ he says hoarsely. I obey cautiously, anxious not to disturb the poker. Now! I grope for a towel, one eye closed. ‘Just a minute.’ I try to make the pain sound real. ‘I’ve got soap in my eye.’ Behind the large yellow towel, I reach down for the poker. Yes, his eyes are closed as he caresses himself. Thank goodness for this man’s predictability! The other hand comes down to touch my hair. Suddenly I am cold, cold and angry. Nothing to lose now. He is guiding my face towards . . . A corner of the towel is in the bath. It is easy, so easy. The fool keeps his eyes closed as I swiftly drop the towel and drive the tip of the poker between his outspread thighs. All my strength goes into this action, one hand on the handle, the other halfway down the blackened metal shaft. There is no need for, no chance of a second blow . . .

I stood at the side of the bath, watching as he began to drown. He had jack-knifed forwards, face down in the water while I scrambled sideways to avoid his falling body. There were bubbles above his head and I stood as if fascinated by the patterns they made as they broke the water’s surface. I climbed over his legs which lay crumpled on the penguin mat, reached down and pulled out the plug. No, I would not commit murder. No, I would not ruin my life, have myself marked as a criminal. He was not worth that, not worth anything.

Now I shook, trembled so violently that my teeth, chattering hard and uncontrollably, bit into my tongue several times. Without drying myself, I pulled on my clothes as quickly as numb fingers would allow, then, still shivering, I wrapped a towel around my frozen shoulders. There were fewer bubbles now and his face was still immersed in the last of the water. Steeling myself, I bent over, took two handfuls of wet crinkled hair and heaved him out of the bath on to the floor. Vomit and bathwater spewed from his mouth and over the linoleum. Like a robot I carried on with my task, fetching and carrying, wrapping the contents of his stomach in wads of newspapers, carrying these bundles downstairs and throwing them to a sizzling death in the depths of the fire. I took the long-handled string mop and cleaned the bathroom floor, shifting the dead weight of his inert body so that I might reach all the water and mess. The automaton I had become lifted his clothes from the lavatory seat and, holding them at arms’ length, carried them across the landing and dropped them onto the bedside rug. Finally, I fetched the poker and dug it deep into the fire, turning over the blackened newspapers, piling coal on top of the evidence.

I huddled over the fire for a long time, my ears straining for the sound of movement from upstairs. When, after an hour or more, I had heard nothing, I crept back up the stairs and stood in the bathroom doorway. His eyes were open, his mouth twisted in agony. My knees began to shake again, so I grabbed the doorframe to steady myself as I addressed him. ‘You’d better get up, hadn’t you?’

‘Help . . . me,’ he groaned.

‘No!’ Then my voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You’ll have a bit of explaining to do now, won’t you?’

His face was white with shock and his body, usually tanned, seemed to be turning blue with cold.

‘Listen, you,’ I went on, determinedly fortifying myself with words. ‘What you’ve been doing to me these last few years is not right. I’m thirteen now and I know what you’ve been up to right from the start. I’ve read about creatures like you – you’re dirty, dirty filthy scum. Pity the Germans didn’t finish you off – they’d have been doing the world a good turn for once. But I’ll do it. If this kind of thing carries on, I’ll get you.’

He cried out in pain as he tried to move and I took a firmer grip on the jamb to stop myself from falling. ‘I swear on my own father’s death that you will pay, Eddie Higson. I might even tell my mother what you are, because I’d rather be dead and I’m sure she would too if she realized what she’s been living with all these years. Anyway, you’re in no position to carry out your threats just now, are you? Take this as a warning, Higson. I could kill you right now and nobody would blame me. But I won’t because I can’t be bothered. As long as you realize I’m capable of it – understand? Touch me again and I’ll kill you. Touch me again and you’ll never be able to sleep, because you’ll know that one night I’ll come after you – with a big sharp knife.’

I closed the door and left him there naked and frozen halfway to death already. I had to negotiate the attic stairs on hands and knees because my body was suddenly disobedient, impossible to manage. Sugar for shock. I crawled into my room and reached up for the bottle of pop on the bedside table, my hand trembling so violently that I could scarcely unscrew the cap. I poured the liquid down my burning throat, my head filled by the sound of the glass bottle as it rattled against my teeth.

The door shook on its hinges when I pushed myself against it, forcing my spine to straighten while I fought to control the involuntary violence of nerve and muscle. The bottle slid from uncertain fingers, contents spilling as it travelled across brown and beige lino towards the long fringe of my bed-cover, a reject from the mill, woven in Bolton sheds out of cotton spun by my mother, or someone like her . . . He was dragging himself across the lower landing. We’d got the quilts two for the price of one. And some towels. Yes, I remembered the towels, four green, two blue . . . Someone moaned in the room beneath mine, moaned then howled like a stricken animal. And some flannelette sheets, pink with the hems not done properly.

Instinct made me crawl, in the end, onto my bed where I immediately lost consciousness. There was no bridge between wakefulness and sleep, no more thinking time, because I simply collapsed into a welcoming darkness, remaining motionless and without dreams until morning.

I woke with a start at about seven o’clock. The house was silent. All the horror of the previous evening flooded into my mind and I staggered across the room to stare at the colourless face in the tallboy mirror. Had I really done all that? I looked round. The floor was stained with orange pop, the bottle lay between door and bed. And yes, something more, a new pain, a grinding discomfort . . .

‘Annie? Annie?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Yes?’

‘You’d best come down, love. There’s been a bit of an accident . . .’

I took off my crumpled clothes as quickly as I could, pulled on a nightie and my dressing gown, then went carefully down the two flights of stairs.

My mother was sitting at the table, a cup of tea in her hand. She poured a cup for me and I sat down opposite her. My hand shook as I guided the tea to my parched lips.

‘Annie? Annie, love? Whatever’s the matter?’

The room swam. ‘My . . . my period,’ I managed, before falling into her arms as she rushed to my side. She helped me on to the sofa.

‘Dear God in heaven,’ she muttered. ‘What a to-do, eh? He’s in hospital – fell off his ladder yesterday, caught himself in an awkward place. And as for you, lass – well, you look like a boiled sheet . . .’

She covered me with the blue work coat and began to rub some life into my hands. ‘I had to get the ambulance to him . . . looks like you should have gone and all. Will I get the doctor?’

I shook my head. ‘No. But I need a couple of Aspros.’

I watched her as she bustled about making more hot tea for me, filling a hot water bottle, fetching aspirin and yet more tea.

She perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘You’ll be alright, lass.’

‘Yes, I know.’

Then I was sobbing, crying my heart out into that beautiful hair as she rocked me in her arms. She was crying too and her body felt so small, so frail as I hung on to her, my mother, my own lovely tiny mother.

‘Oh my poor lass, my little girl,’ she whispered between her own sobs. ‘It’s alright, love. I know all about it, I know . . . I know.’

Oh Mam, Mam. You don’t know. God forbid that you ever must.

He was in hospital for weeks. According to my mother, who visited him regularly, his injuries had required surgery and he remained in considerable pain for a long time. Strangely, this knowledge gave me no satisfaction and I began to realize that revenge was not really what I wanted. My prime concern was for my own safety and for my mother’s wellbeing and I knew that there was still much to fear if and when his recovery became complete. But I managed, for some of the time, to block my mind of such worries, to postpone them at least, because there was little to be achieved by wearing myself down even further.

The window round was temporarily taken over by a friend of Higson’s, a drinking companion from the Star. So although this man took his share, we were not too badly off as there was just the pair of us to feed during this period.

I mended slowly and needed several days off school; my mother put this lethargy down to my age, said that starting periods was worse for some girls than for others and that I was one of the unfortunate few. I was sent to see Dr Pritchard who, after peering into my eyes, declared that I was not anaemic, that I was a disgustingly healthy specimen and if all his patients were like me he’d be out of a job in ten minutes flat.

‘Still getting the blind rages?’ he asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

‘Not so often now. I . . . well . . . cry for nothing and laugh at stupid things – things that aren’t really funny . . .’

‘Hmm.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Hormones. They’re a bugger, you know.’

I lifted my chin in pretended defiance. ‘Yes, they’re a bugger, Doctor.’

He laughed heartily at this and I noticed once again what a handsome man he was, especially when he laughed and made crinkles at the corners of those gentle blue eyes. He ran a hand through the untamable mid-brown hair and I realized that Simon had inherited the straight thick eyebrows from his father, whose own forehead was usually completely hidden as he never seemed to plaster his hair back with Brylcreem. It was a strong face too with features that were clearly defined, especially the square jaw which had a slight cleft not quite in the centre.

‘And what makes you cry?’ he asked now.

‘Books, mostly – stories about people. And Beethoven on the wireless.’ For a reason I could not explain, I felt able to tell this man anything. Well, not quite everything, but I did not mind him knowing me.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Beethoven can hurt a lot. He was a great big bear with a sore head, that man. Bad enough having all that music rattling round in your skull without going deaf as well. Sometimes, I think only people who’ve led a tortured life can write good music – or good books, come to that.’ He looked me up and down. ‘You need a holiday,’ he announced.

‘I’ve never had one.’

‘I know that. But you need one all the same.’ He pondered for a few seconds. ‘How about a quick day trip to Blackpool with Simon and me? Time I had a day off too, come to think of it.’

I stared down at my shoes. Mrs Pritchard wouldn’t like it. Mrs Pritchard wouldn’t allow it.

As if reading my thoughts, he said casually, ‘Just the three of us?’

I found myself grinning at him. ‘Can I be cheeky, Doctor?’

‘Have you ever been anything else?’

‘Well, there’s somebody else who needs a day out just as much as I do. Please could we take my mother too? Make it a Saturday or a Sunday – he’s still in hospital, so she could go.’

‘Hmm. Of course your mother can go with us.’ He paused. ‘I take that “he” is your stepfather?’

‘Yes. But I . . . don’t call him my stepfather.’

‘You don’t like him.’ This was a statement rather than a question, but I answered all the same – ‘No, I don’t.’

He rose and walked to the window. With his back towards me he spoke, almost to himself, ‘Not easy living with somebody you don’t like. Strange thing, a family. A bit like workmates, I suppose. You just have to get on with the situation whether you’re suited or not.’

‘You can change your job, Doctor . . .’

He turned round, seemed almost surprised to see me, as if he’d been about to lose himself in deep thought somewhere.

‘That’s right, Anne. But you can’t change your family, can you? Would you if you could?’

‘Not my mother.’

‘But you’d change him?’

‘I’d swap him tomorrow for a . . . a jar of tadpoles. In fact, I’d pay somebody to shift him.’

‘Does he beat you?’ The ground was becoming dangerous, yet I still answered, ‘Not any more.’

He leaned on the window sill, hands thrust into his trouser pockets where I heard coins jingling. He was daft with money, was Dr Pritchard, never kept a wallet, stuffed it into any old pocket, often left a heap of coins out by his car when he’d been messing about with hub caps and wheel nuts. Yet whenever we found this treasure, we always, always gave it back to him. Even when we’d found a whitey one day – a whole five pounds – we’d taken it to him straight away . . .

‘What does he do then, Anne, to make you dislike him so?’

I shrugged my shoulders as lightly as I could. ‘He eats with his mouth wide open, slurps his tea at a distance of about three feet from the cup, snores like a stuck pig . . . shouts, loses his temper . . .’

‘Hits your mother?’

‘Once or twice he has, yes.’

‘I thought so.’ He came back to sit at his desk. ‘The important thing is not to let yourself hate him. Hatred makes people bitter and negative, eats away their personality, destroys creativity – hatred is a waste of energy.’ He leaned back in his chair and stared at me. ‘My advice to you is that you must ignore him as much as possible. He won’t go away, but at least you won’t notice him so much. And we’ll have a lovely day in Blackpool while he’s nursing his . . . wounds.’ He smiled wryly. ‘How did that happen, by the way? I didn’t see him – come to think of it, I don’t think he’s ever been to the surgery – he went straight to casualty in an ambulance, didn’t he?’