Mountains of the Moon (18 page)

I rears up in my mind, agony makes me deaf and blind.

“There we are, smashing toes,” the Bandage Nurse says. “That nasty old Jack Frost bit the little one off, didn’t he?”

I sees the paw prints in blood on the floor and up all over my sheets. The lions took my toes, they done it so I can’t run way. I listens. The curtains’ whisker.

My duffel bag is packed. I go slowly on my crutches, down to Betty’s transport caff on the trading estate. But I’m hours early and Bob int here yet. Don’t know if I’m clever enough to live in a student house, but the room is cheap and they know I’m coming, all thanks to Bob who comes from Sheffield. He’s going to give me a lift. He int here. Just a few plumbers.

“Hello, goddess,” one of them says.

Another one has got a gammon steak on his fork and a ring of pineapple.

“Body made for loving,” he says.

“Why does you have to be so fat?” I says. But it’s just my magination.

I move on crutches around all the tables and sit down over in the corner. Tyrone brings my coffee to me. We always has a cuddle cos he’s got the Down’s syndrome.

“Where’s Bob?”

“No Bob. No Bob. No Bob today,” he says.

A couple of customers followed me in and he goes back to the counter to serve them. I smoke and watch the plumbers eating. One slaps a slice of bread in his gravy then eats it with a knife and fork. The door opens and the rich girl from yesterday comes in. She’s wearing jodhpurs and a hacking jacket and long black rubber riding boots. Mad fluff puppy wedged under her arm.

Everyone stops chewing to watch her, mugs is halfway to lips.

Today her hair is loose, like an orange cape shining red in the kinks from yesterday’s plait. Surprises me how someone so little can look down her nose at people, it’s like she’s still up on her horse. I look outside, see
if she came on it, but there’s only a dark gray Audi Quattro and the plumbers’ vans parked. Nice car, Audi Quattro. She goes straight to use the payphone on the wall. Gets in a mess with the dog and the leash and her purse and the pen and the address book with the phone number in. Coins keep dropping through.

“For God’s sake!” She puts the dog down, tries gain to make the call.

Dog looks around bored, sees a bit of fried egg under a table, goes off on a weaving adventure, around table legs and chairs. When it sees me it goes mad, brings everything dragging and slopping with it. Leaves a trail of piss, knocks my crutches over. Wuthering Heights drops her purse and all the coins spill out.

“I need to speak to—hello—oh for pity’s sake; can you ring me back. Hello?”

I hobble over on the plaster cast and take the
idiot
lead from her hand; it’s gone around her legs three times. She’s got through to someone.

“I’m tired of this now,” she says. “Tell him it’s urgent—it’s Gwen Llewelyn.”

I pick the puppy up and start untangling mess of legs and tangled furniture. When she finishes on the phone I’ve got everything straight and cleaned up and the puppy has gone up my jumper.

“It’s ridiculous,” she says.

“You should sit down have a cup of sweet tea. Cigarette,” I say, “calm your nerves.”

“I had no idea that people actually spoke like you in real life.”

I could say the same about her, sides no one speaks like me in real life. If I didn’t speak the way I does I wouldn’t even exist.

“Don’t you think it suits me?”

“I mean where in London would I have to go to end up talking with an accent like that?”

“I int ever lived in London,” I says. “Lived everywhere else. You want a cup of tea? I’m having another one, since your dog knocked the first one over.”

“I suppose I ought to thank you and buy it.”

“Yeah,” I says. “I spose you ought.”

It’s unusual, red hair and olive skin. She’s grubby around her neck, in the creases on her wrist. Uh-huh. That’s what I sides, she’s a dirty person in clean clothes.

“Did you get through in the end?” I offer her a cigarette.

“Finally,” she says and takes one. “The tragedy of working for a living.”

“What does you do?” I says.

“I’m a private investigator,” she says.

“No shit,” I says. Likes it, wishes I could say it gain.

I light our cigarettes and hold the match while she blows it out. Tyrone calls that our tea is ready; he’s too scared of her to bring them over. She goes to the counter, seems like the whole caff goes with her. The puppy is hypnotized by my thumb stroking tween its eyes. I remember that yesterday she was looking for a place. She brings the tea and sits down.

“Any luck in the paper?”

“Eh?” she says.

“House Hunting, Horse and Hound.”

“It looks as though I’m not staying after all; my case is moving to Rotherham of all godforsaken destinations. Did you find anywhere?”

“I’m going this afternoon,” I says. “I’ve got a room in Sheffield and a free ride up there.”

“How odd.”

Don’t know what she means.

“We’ll be practically neighbors,” she says. “Do you know the address?”

I get the piece of paper out of my pocket. Chippenhouse Road, Nether Edge, Sheffield. She reads it.

“When I get up to Yorkshire,” she says, “I could give you a knock. We could go out on the town.”

It int something I can picture. I spects she will forget the address.

“If you like,” I say, feel a bit faint. The painkillers make me woozy. Feel really faint.

“Has to put my head down.” I lift the puppy.

She reaches over to take it from me.

“Is it pain from your foot?”

“I int been feeling very well,” I says.

“How long have you been like this?”

“Twenty years,” I says, ducking.

“Soppy,” she says.

“Five more minutes, Mr. Nesbitt.”

“Nurse!” he calls.

She rolls back like a person on tracks, her smile and elbows and wrists is clockwork.

“Mr. Nesbitt?” Her head tips sideways.

Mr. Nesbitt looks up at her.

“It won’t be tonight, will it?” he says. “They won’t decide tonight?”

“No, Mr. Nesbitt, nothing can happen until Mr. Abraham has seen Catherine.”

He holds his arms out, like carrying something heavy and dead.

“Where will they take her? I’d like to know.”

I wonders what he done to his hand.

“Mr. Nesbitt,” she says, “it really is a matter for the police, for close friends and for…”

Lions eat the rest of her words, ripping up under her ribs. Her leg int coming off easy, but she still is smiling as they drag her all cross the floor.

“Don’t worry, Catherine.” Mr. Nesbitt breathes on my fingers one at a time and rubs them, case he can warm them up. “Don’t worry,” he says.

I tries to tell him,
I int Catherine
, but the first word ties a knot. Stead, I smell the freesias and eat a grape to cheer him up.

“You really must go now, Mr. Nesbitt,” says the clockwork nurse.

“Could you not hear me, Catherine? I’ve been calling you,” the nurse says. “This man has come to take some photographs of you. He’s come especially.”

He looks like sorry for being Scottish. He’s got a kilt on with a long safety pin and socks with tassels. The nurse pulls the curtains around and my policeman stays the other side.

“Hello,” the man says. “Ken Dooley at your service. I understand that you’ve got some ve
rr
y special patterns?”

“Would it be all right, Catherine, for me to undo your gown so the man can photograph your front?” the nurse arsts.

I make them all nervous. Case I bite them. I nod my head. The nurse undoes my gown and pats for me to lay down flat. I got blue pants with daisies on, don’t know how come. Nurse folds the sheet so that the man can see.

“Yes indeed,” he says. “Ve
rr
y, ve
rr
y interesting.”

They pull one curtain back on the winder side and roll me about ever so nice trying to get the light right. The camera’s nose comes out, elephant wants a currant bun, don’t know how he does it, can’t see no strings or nothing. He don’t even want my face. I int allowed to stand up.

“Aerial view,” he says.

He stands on the plastic chair and the nurse holds it steady cos the floor int level but she int allowed to look up his skirt.

“I was wondering,” he says, getting down. “Would it be all right to take some close-ups?”

They both stand looking at me.

“What do you think, Catherine? Would it be OK for this man to take some close-ups of your front?”

I nod my head.

“Good girl,” she says.

He has to come down almost level, to get the sun and shadow proper. The film runs out so fast he has to put a new one in. He turns the camera one way, then the other, runs around the bed, side to side.

“Beautiful,” he says. “Beautiful.”

And it’s true, my patterns is beautiful. I wonders if to tell him I done them with a ruler. The sun goes behind a cloud.

“We’ll have to use the flash,” he says.

“Weston-super-Mare?” I say to the ticket lady.

She gives me an irregular look like I stole the coat or something.

“Return?”

“No.”

The coach is filling up, last winder seat is mine. I think about Gwen. Surprised me, one Saturday night I found her on my Sheffield doorstep. She dragged me out to the Ritzy, we went a few times. She danced around her handbag and all the men in the room. I always slipped out on the fire escape and sat up on the roof, until it was time for Gwen and me and some bloke to leave. She was living in Rotherham, renting a caravan in Maurice’s yard. He’s got a shed and a polytunnel and a flower barrow in a lay-by, I did some pricking-out for him and minded his shop while he had a day off. Gwen’s
case
was living just up the road but three months later they moved again, to Weston-super-Mare, so Gwen and her horse and her dog moved too. She tried hard to tempt me at the time, but I’d already promised Maurice I’d help him with the run-up to Christmas. My hands is still shredded from making the holly wreaths. I went over there this morning to say I was moving south, catching up with Gwen. He was in a good mood, “Go on, ask me,” he said. Went out last night with an air hostess that Dateline sent him, “Cunt like an allotment,” he said.

Sometimes think me and Gwen are friends only because she insists. I don’t know how people get good friends; I only seem to get other fuck-ups and freaks. That int fair, it don’t sound kind. We did have a few nice times and even when she left she rang me every week for a chat. I feel a bit sick actually, with impending doom. Christmas and New Year was desolate in the student house, just me and the ferret in the kitchen. Last night Gwen caught me off guard.

“Come on!” she said. “What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Listen.” I put the receiver down on the floor
so Gwen could hear the Pennine wind chewing under the front door. Students kept climbing over my threadbare shoulder on the threadbare stairs.

“So what are you waiting for?” Gwen said. “Why stay in Sheffield?”

Students is such filthy bastards.

“I’ve got to get a job, Gwen.”

“You can look as easily down here,” she said. “Come on! It will be a crack!”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Member the policeman’s boots?”