Go to Sleep (24 page)

‘Hi, Ruben. It’s me.’

‘Rachel? Is that you?’

There’s elation in his voice. I’m not imagining it. Ruben is overjoyed to hear me.

‘Yeah, I . . .’

‘Fuckin’ ’ell! How are you?’

‘I’m . . .’ My God. This man is overjoyed to be speaking with me. I’m thrown. All those years of taciturn, reluctant exchanges, clandestine meetings, slowly wrought proclamations of affection. He said it most eloquently when he carved it on the slide. He never could quite say it to my face. ‘I’m really, really great thanks, Ruben.’

‘That’s great!’ I can hear a big, generous chuckle from him. ‘Fuck! It’s so good to hear from you!’

‘I was just passing the cathedral and I just thought . . .’ Invite me up. Invite me up. I want to see you. He says nothing. I hear sadness in his silence. ‘Well, just that . . . I dunno . . .’

‘I don’t live there no more.’

‘Oh.’

I need to sit down.

‘So – guess what? Guess where I am?’

‘Where?’

‘
Le Mansion
!’

‘You got it?’ I should have known he’d get it. I should have had more faith. ‘You got the job?’

‘Yep!
Sous-chef
to the great man himself! Ah, Rache, you have to see this place. It’s something else, man. The village, the people and the food, Jesus, I thought I knew food, babe, but fuckin’ ’ell, I am getting taught some things here that you just wouldn’t . . .’ He talks on and on and on. I have never heard Ruben talk so much. And that seismic sense of bereavement that dragged me down so deep a moment ago is just as suddenly eclipsed by joy, a huge and uplifting sensation of joy; not for me – for him. ‘Know what, Rache? Come down. Come down and stay with us and I swear to you, I will cook you the best meal of your life.’ His voice is quivering. I just want to listen to him, talking like that; but I can only disappoint him. I hang up suddenly, in happiness. My mobile goes immediately. But I don’t pick up.

*

I forge on down the hill and see the city dancing on the Mersey. An ecstasy surges up inside my skull and I just
don’t want to stop walking and walking. I can taste the river in my lungs, raw and vital, that sour metallic tang of the city in motion. I too am moving forward. I reach down and feel the spongy lightness of my tummy. Another shudder of elation and a blast of energy through my veins. I break into a trot, a run and then I’m sprinting pell-mell towards the river, so fast now that if I flap my arms, I might launch myself across the shimmering black drink, up and away like a soaring cormorant. Like a Liver Bird.

Bang! Something slaps me to, an electro-prod to the chest. I sit up, dazed, dehydrated and take in my surroundings. I’m slumped back against a bulwark on the dock road. I have no idea how I got here; how long I’ve been here. The cold kicks in. I’m so numb now, disembodied and floating above myself. My teeth are chattering wildly. There’s a tugging in my stomach, a magnetic lurch that drags me back to thoughts I’m not yet ready to process. I resist the pull. I tucked him up good and proper. He’ll be fine.

A little bar of light strafes across the slick darkness of the road ahead. Once the haunt of stevedores, seamen and good time girls, this strip where town melts into the ancient docklands of Liverpool has always mesmerised me. It’s as good as dead these days, but this is where the winds have blown me. This is where I’ve landed. I clock a jaundiced backlight filtering out ahead of me. In shaky
slow motion, I walk towards it, a shivering, shuddering zombie. As I draw close to the filthy yellow glow, I hear the bray and din of a tiny old pub. It’s on the stretch between the marina and the old Coburg dock, and on the odd times I’ve passed here it’s always been closed – but it’s open now. The gust of warmth and merriment dazzles me as I push through the door, and no one so much as glances as I sidle up to the bar and order a large rum and Coke. I’m shivering so much I drop my purse.

I haven’t slept in over two months, I tell the barmaid. She looks bored as my numb fingers try to dig out a crumpled five pound note. She fixes the drink and takes the tip, but she turns away quickly once it’s done, shooting the breeze with the pleasant-looking guy perched on the pub’s sole bar stool. I take myself over to a table in the corner, joyful just to sit back and get warm and think nothing. It’s mainly old men in here, and I guess that even with my shabby get-up and fatigue-wrecked face, my youth picks me out as a mark. The young man at the bar wastes no time in coming over. He tilts his pint to his mouth, eyeing the room over the rim of his glass.

‘Mind if I?’

He pulls out a chair. He’s not handsome so much as
nice
looking, his slightly chubby face dimpling as he smiles. I shrug.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘But I’m not staying.’

He grins, holding my stare until I smile and look away.
‘Harry,’ he says, holding out his hand. The barmaid looks over, darts an ironic eyebrow up to heaven. All I think is that he doesn’t look like a Harry. He rotates his chair slightly so that he’s half sitting with his back to me, feigning interest in the news on TV. But I can see his mind ticking over, weighing up possibilities and, in that moment, I know that if he asks me I will let him. Not for the thing itself – but to be with him. To have someone there. He nods at my glass.

‘Same again?’

I manage to say yes without speaking. He places the flats of his hands on the table and pushes himself up, raking his eyes across my chest and down over the baggy fold of my abdomen. Time slows right down. He returns with the drinks. This time he doesn’t swivel away. His eyes, like two hot coals in his face, scour me. Talk doesn’t come easily but we manage to keep the conversation bobbing a course through intermittent trenches of silence. I catch him looking at my hands, their flayed skin seething red and flaky under the queer light in here, and I tuck them under my thighs when I’m not delving for my drink.

I lose count of the drinks we have. I only came out with a twenty and that’s well gone. Remembering my trip to the chemist’s jabs me upright and a scalding screen of terror plants itself deep inside but then he comes back with another drink. The kick of the rum has ceased to work its magic, leaving in its place an
eviscerating tiredness. Every nuance of my body has faded out, gone. I am hollow, drifting in and out of real time, sliding down in my seat, jolting myself awake again. I flash back to that couple on Upper Parliament Street. How did I get here? Who is this man? And, now, I think of Joe. I must, must get back to him. Oh, Joe. Please. Mamma’s coming . . .

Hideous panic sweats out of me. He will freeze. He will perish. I must get back there now, back to Joe. I stagger outside, my head giddy, my legs unsteady, buckling beneath me. Harry appears by my side. The sensation of his hand on the small of my back feels nice, steadying me against the lurch of my stupor. He walks me backwards to the bus shelter and leans me against it and I stoop down, breathing hard, resting my palms on my thighs.

‘Just hang on there. See if I can get a cab,’ he says.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I’m taking you home.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

He laughs, and his teeth are nice and there’s the rumbling clank of a taxi in the distance.

And then . . .

We’re stepping out of the cab.

We get up the first flight of stairs, then the landing and he staggers, pulling me down, giggling. I want him
to be quiet. I want to get inside, to my baby.

We’re on the floor. Harry is pressing down on me, sucking at my neck, one hand squeezing and groping between my legs, the other dragging up my top and wrenching down my bra. I want it to stop, but I can’t lift a finger. I can’t do anything but lie there and wait for it to be over.

He levers my tits halfway out, and I look down over my chin – two big breasts bound together by the elastic underwiring of a dirty, cotton bra. He’s breathing hard, aroused, methodical now. He tugs my joggers down to my knees and there’s a jagged pause as he works his dick free with one hand and pulls my knickers to one side with the other.

It just falls inside me, barely touches the sides, I’m not even sure if I can feel anything. But the heat and closeness of his body pressing down on mine is fine. He licks my tits and sucks my nipples, saying ‘yeah, lovely’ as he slurps and bites. And slowly, slowly, and with a blessed and cavernous yield I go down. Down. Down. Ruben. I love you.

And then . . .

He is screaming at me, slapping my face. I sit up, disorientated, holding my hand to my hot and stinging cheek.

‘What the fuck is
that
!’

I blink, confused. The man who slapped me, the man that was on top of me is not Ruben. I don’t know who he is. He scrabbles around on his knees, scrambling over my legs and tripping up as he tries to stand, hopping and stumbling in the snare of his jeans. He’s clamping his hand to his mouth like it’s me who has hit him. He spits into his palm and holds it out to make sure. He twists up his face, spits and spits again, all over the floor.

‘That is just fuckin’ . . . that’s
sick
, that is! You sick fucking bitch!’

He looms over me like he’s going to hit me again but I must look so crazy sitting there topless and dishevelled on the landing, sitting there stunned, that he stops right there. He fires me one more look, half fear, half disgust, then takes the stairs five at a time, slamming the door behind him.

I reach for my bra, strangely detached from the familiarity of where I am. And now I feel the trickle running down the underside of my tits and over my tummy. I look down and see two rivulets of milk leaking from my nipples.

And I remember.

Wide awake and shocked into absolute silence, Joe just lies there, every now and then a pitiful shudder racking his tiny body. I can smell him from here. Hating myself, hating this, I run to him, drag him into my arms, blankets trailing.

‘Baby! Baby!’ I hold him to my breast and rock him. He begins to cry. His babygro is wet through. As quickly as my still-cold fingers will let me, I pop open his sleepsuit, lever his legs out. His nappy is sodden with piss and shit. Thin, yellow, glutinous shit has seeped right up his back. ‘Darling . . . my little angel . . .’ He won’t have it. My sorrow, my salving, serves only to antagonise Joe. He kicks into action.

I steel myself. This is my fault. I did this. I get his sleepsuit right off him and begin wiping him down with the one dry leg that escaped the seeping shit. He’s still
covered in it. I leave him on the floor on his changing mat and dip through to the kitchen.

I can feel the tremors from here; feel his little spine vibrating with ire. I’m falling. I’m going under. I brought this on myself; thinking I could do it by myself. Thinking that I
should
do. Stupid. So stupid. I slide slowly to the floor, my head in my hands. What am I doing, here? What have I done? I pull out my phone and stare at it, and then I do it. I type out four letters – HELP – and I send the message to the men who might just be able to.

‘WARGH-WARGH-WARGH-WARGH-WARGH!!!’

I bolt to my feet. I let the tap run hot, douse a tea towel in warm water, wring it out and run back through to Joe. I wipe his back, his red, blistering bottom, his chafed thighs. I wipe him gently, leaning forward to get inside the folds and creases of his legs and, as I extend myself to clean his frail neck, a bottle drops out of my pocket and clunks onto the floor, missing his head by an inch. I pick it up, heart throbbing. Dozinite.

‘WAAAAAAARGH! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Please be quiet, Joe. Please be calm.

‘WAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Mummy is sorry. Mummy is so, so sorry.

‘Come on. You’ll be all right. It will all be just fine.’

The girl holds out her hand to me. I take a step. Close to the edge, the ice looks thick and strong. She’s standing on the little island in the lake, smiling. I can’t make sense of it, but I want to be out there, with her. I haven’t been for years, but I know it so well. It looks safe. It looks . . . Mum
hated
the word, but it looks nice, where she is. Cosy.

‘We came here, once, Joe. Daddy and I. We came here, and we kissed.’

The girl leans towards me, keeping her feet dug into the mossy grass bank.

‘Pass the baby first.’ I hold Joe out towards her. An icy, ghostly mist hovers above the surface, enshrouding the girl. I put my weight on to the ice. The lake. It holds. I take a step. ‘Slowly. That’s fine. Pass me the baby.’

I look behind me. We’ve only taken a step or two, but my flat looks a long, long way away. Another step. From beneath me comes a loud creak, then the low screech of ice splitting, inch by inch. The girl’s eyes take on a look of terror.

‘The baby. Quickly, Rachel. The baby!’

I try to outrun the cracking ice. I hold Joe out as far as my arms will stretch and, in doing so, I over balance, slip on the ice and slide forwards. The girl lies on her stomach, leans right out and gets her grip on to Joe. She hauls him in, holds him close. I reach out to her. The ice is cracking all around me. I feel the seep of water. I go to scream out, scream for help, but no words come. I start to sink. I see the girl, holding my baby. Holding Joe close to her.

‘Mum. Help. Help me.’

But she doesn’t hear. And it isn’t nice down here. It isn’t warm, or cosy. It’s deathly cold.

It’s the cold that wakes me, a deep and bitter chill that has penetrated right to the marrow of my bones. It’s there in the sharp shock of the floorboards and the icy damp of the walls, a wild and murderous cold. I prise my eyes open, my motor already readying me for yet more hurt in this twisting, garish nightmare. For a moment I find myself looking down on a scene from my twenties – waking up on the couch, an empty bottle of wine on the floor; the first sparring jabs of a bone-shattering migraine jolting me back to my senses. But before I get to the stabs and stalling regrets, or the dire and deadly pain, an immediate sensation of dread yanks me wide awake.

What is it? What am I telling myself has happened? I can tell straight away that I’ve slept – really slept, long and
hard. My head is clear, I’m slack around the temples and my eyeballs glide fluent and keen, scanning the room for something, anything to give shape to this dread. I stand up, walk to the window and stare out towards the park and it’s like being hit from all sides. Bang! The lake. I turn around, sick, fear slamming me, rolling me over. Bang! A wide open tub of formula; crunchy off-white powder spilled all around it. Bang! Joe’s bottle on the floor, barely a soupçon of artificial fucking milk left in it. And then the killer. Over by the kettle, the bottle of Dozinite. No. Please God, no.