Run, Mummy, Run (24 page)

‘Do you use embalming fluid?’ Aisha asked, remembering she’d read it was something used by undertakers.

Eileen stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Well, yes, normally. Unless there is a cultural concern?’

‘No, but that smell, it’s so strong. I’m sure it’s not your perfume.’

Eileen frowned, concerned. ‘The embalming fluid is odourless and colourless,’ she said. ‘And the embalming room is at the far end of the courtyard, at the rear. We have never had a complaint before.’

‘And he’s definitely not here?’ Aisha said.

‘Your husband? No, dear. We’ll collect him from the morgue tomorrow. We need the death certificate first. Please, try not to worry, I’m sure it’s nothing.’ Eileen hesitated; then patting Aisha’s arm reassuringly, returned to the folder. ‘It’s usual to give the mourners something to eat and drink after the funeral,’ she continued. ‘A light buffet is normally sufficient. This can be at home, or we can hire a hall if it’s more convenient. We have used the same catering firm for many years. I’ll give you a leaflet, they’re quite reasonably priced and very discreet. Once we know the numbers I’ll arrange it for you.’

The smell was overpowering now and more poignant than ever before. It was saturating the air, rushing into her throat each time she took a breath. Millions of tiny droplets of his musky aftershave, cloying her mouth and the lining of her nose, making it almost impossible to breathe or swallow. Like an asthma attack, Aisha thought although she’d never suffered from asthma even as a child. And the temperature was dropping now, like it did at home; for despite having turned up the thermostat and set the heating to constant, she had been permanently cold. Eileen seemed not to notice the fall in temperature and appeared comfortable in her thin open-neck blouse and light cotton suit. Aisha shivered and drew her coat closer around her. Eileen stopped and looked at her.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ She placed a reassuring hand on Aisha’s arm again. ‘Can I get you something? A glass of water? Cup of tea?’

‘No, but I can’t stay much longer, I have to go. You decide about the funeral. Whatever you think is suitable; just do it for me, please.’

Eileen looked surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, please, you must. I really have to go now. I can’t stay any longer.’

Eileen took her hand from Aisha’s arm. ‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll book the funeral for next Friday, that’s the first free day. Would you prefer a morning or an afternoon?’

‘I really don’t mind,’ Aisha said. ‘You decide. Whatever you think, just do it. Phone if you need anything.’ She stood and the room tilted. Eileen steadied her arm.

The smell was indescribable now, clogging her pores, putrefying the air and lodging in her stomach. She had to get out of this dreadful room before she was sick.

‘We’ll pick you up tomorrow then to register the death,’ Eileen was saying. ‘At nine thirty. You can give me the deposit and let me know about the numbers expected then.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Aisha turned and fled past her, through reception, and to the door; she pulled it open and the bell clanged behind her.

She was out on the pavement now, running, running up the High Street, gulping in the air, trying to get rid of the dreadful smell and taste. It was his aftershave, she was certain, now mingling with something even more unpleasant that could have been the smell of death. Mark had been there, she was sure, and not just because of the smell. She had sensed him, felt his presence as she did at home; when she saw a movement or shadow out of the corner of her eye and turned round to confront him, but found he had already gone. As she ran, her coat and hair flying out behind her, she glanced back over her shoulder, half-expecting to see him pursuing her. But there were only strangers who were staring at her.

She ran past the last of the shops on the High Street and turned into her road, gulping in the fresh air, breath after breath, taking it deep into her lungs, and trying to rid herself of the awful smell and taste. She checked over her shoulder again, and seeing it was still clear, slowed to a walking pace and tried to catch her breath. Her lungs felt as though they were about to explode, and her head and eyes throbbed. But worse was the noise, the street noise, which was now so loud it seemed to surround and engulf her. The bare branches of the trees overhead chaffed against each other like sandpaper on dry wood. The engines and wheel noise of the cars that passed were deafening, and seemed designed to pummel her into the ground. Then all the colours of everything she passed started jumping out at her, startlingly vivid, and blinding her with their brilliance: the red of the bus, the blue car, the yellow piece of paper blowing in the wind. Aisha screwed her eyes shut, opened them and tried to refocus, but it made no difference.

Concentrate on something
, she told herself,
something still and silent that won’t attack. That garden gate, the tree trunk, that discarded Coke can in the gutter.
A dog came towards her, its paws thundering along the pavement, its tongue lolling out. She could see the string of saliva hanging from its jaw, and could almost hear it stretching, then fall to the pavement with a mighty splash. She fled past it and up the road as everything seemed to conspire against her, trying to bring her down.

She made the last few steps to the house and flung open the gate, rushed up the path, and managed somehow to get her key into the lock. Stumbling in, she slammed the door behind her, then with one hand cupped over her mouth and nose to block out the smell, ran through the house, opening all the windows, upstairs and down. She knew he was here somewhere, she could feel his presence, smell his aftershave mingling with the warmth of his body as it had done on that first date, and then in the garage when she’d stood close to him. He was in here somewhere, hiding, waiting to pounce. He was angry, seething, and she knew it wasn’t safe to stay inside, not with him in this mood, he would kill her for sure.

Running into the kitchen she unlocked the back door and then ran to the end of the garden, where she dropped down beside the shed. She drew her knees up to her chest and looped her arms around her legs, then rested her chin on top. She stared at the back of the house, and waited, watching for any sign of movement. Only when she was absolutely certain that he had gone, and she was finally free of him for good, would she dare to return inside.

R
un, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.
The refrain ran through Aisha’s head over and over again. It was from a story her father knew by heart and had narrated endlessly when she was a child. It was one of her favourites and she had begged him to tell her the story over and over again. ‘Please, one more time,’ she used to say as he tucked her into bed and said goodnight. But as the gingerbread man found out to his peril, you can’t run for ever, at some point you get caught and will pay the price.

Still at the bottom of the garden, hunched forwards, with her arms around her knees, Aisha rocked back and forth in tune to the rhythm of the refrain. The sky was beginning to darken, late afternoon was turning into night. The clouds had rolled in and the lone bird that had accompanied her all afternoon had now stopped singing and had taken refuge for the night in some distant tree.
Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.
The plaintiff melody, which had confined and absorbed her thoughts while she waited by the shed, slowly petered out.

She shifted slightly, pulled her coat closer around her, and then moved her legs. They were numb from the cold and sitting in one position for so long. She flexed her toes and blew on her hands, then felt her fingers and toes start to tingle as the blood began to circulate. At some point she would have to stand and go into the house. At some point, but not yet. In a while, she thought, when she was certain he had gone, for sometimes the house appeared to be empty, but then she would catch sight of his shadow, the briefest flicker of grey as he crossed behind one of the open windows. He was a crafty one, that was for sure, lying dormant for minutes on end and then trying to slip past her when he thought she wasn’t looking – trying to catch her out. She looped her arms around her knees again and continued rocking.
Run, run as fast as you can.
There was a safety, a comfort in rocking, it soothed like a cradle or rocking chair, and took the edge off the pain.

Yet it was strange, Aisha had to admit, being conscious of what she was doing, and why. To be aware that she was sitting at the bottom of the garden in the middle of winter, rocking to the rhythm of a nursery rhyme, while waiting for the house to clear of a ghost. She could see herself doing it, almost objectively, as if in third person, and knew it was quite bizarre. She’d assumed madness crept up and took you by surprise, so that everyone else knew how oddly you were behaving, apart from you. Yet here she was quite lucidly observing herself, while being unable to alter what she saw. There was a type of voyeurism in watching yourself go mad – a fly-on-the-wall documentary, where you watched but couldn’t act.

A few minutes more, she thought, then she would risk it, stand and go in. She drew back the sleeve of her coat to check her watch, and laughed out loud. ‘You idiot! You knew it was broken. It’s not likely to have fixed itself.’ She looked up again at the back of the house. There hadn’t been any movement at any of the windows for quite a while now. She ran her eyes from the kitchen to the lounge, then up to the bathroom, and across to the box room Mark used for storage; they were all still clear.

‘On the count of three then,’ she said, and placed her hands, palms down, either side ready to push herself up.
One, two, three
, and she was standing. Her head spun and she steadied herself on the shed. Dried twigs and muddy leaves clung to her coat and she bent down and brushed them off. She took a couple of steps and felt her legs wobble, then strengthen as she continued gingerly over the lawn and to the back door.

Reaching in, she tentatively switched on the light, and satisfied it was all clear, continued in, closing and locking the door behind her. She crossed to the sink, closed the window above, then poured a glass of water and drank it in one go. Pity there wasn’t any more mango squash, she thought, she really fancied some of that now. Turning, she went through the archway that led to the lounge, switched on the light, paused, and sniffed the air. Good. There was no smell, and no movement. But what a mess! The light illuminated the contents of Mark’s briefcase still in the middle of the floor.

Aisha waited again and listened some more, half-expecting to hear Mark to tell her to clear it up, but the room remained quiet and calm. Reassuring herself that the house was truly empty and therefore safe, Aisha continued across the lounge and closed the bay windows, then returned to the unruly heap of papers beside Mark’s open briefcase. She knelt down and began rummaging through the papers until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out his address book. Aisha wanted to check on something, to see if she had remembered correctly. For while she’d been sitting in the garden, waiting and thinking, something had occurred to her – a realization, which had continued to poke and dig, chaffing her mind and making it sore.

She opened the address book, and flipping through the first few pages, stopped at C. Christine, yes, she thought so; she
had
remembered correctly. She wasn’t so daft after all! She stared at Mark’s neat fountain pen entry, the stylish slant of his words. It seemed to be speaking to her, sending out a message, a clue, if she was smart enough to see it, which she was now. For Mark’s sleek black leather address book wasn’t very old, only a year or so she thought, and yet Christine’s address had been updated; which meant it was a recent move, and one that Mark had clearly been informed of.

So why
, Aisha thought, savouring the wisdom of her insight,
why had he been told Christine’s new address, if he hadn’t seen her in ten years?
She didn’t think it was for Christmas cards, although indeed he might have sent her one. But there was another, far more plausible explanation, obvious now, as it should have been years ago, if she’d had the wit and energy to see it. Quite clearly Mark had been seeing Christine, it was the only reason she could think of for him having updated her entry in his address book. The two of them had been carrying on behind her back, which meant, Aisha thought, Christine was as much to blame for her unhappiness as Mark had been. Her anger flared.

Aisha stood and kicked his briefcase hard, sending it flying across the room. ‘Fuck you! The both of you!’ she cried out loud. ‘Especially you, Christine! I didn’t stand a chance with you waiting in the wings! What sort of woman are you who has an affair with a man who beats his wife and neglects his children? You’re despicable, that’s what you are! How long has it been going on? Or perhaps it never stopped! Is that why he treated me as he did? Because I was always second best? Did he tell you about me, and how pathetic I was? I bet he did! I bet he told you between the sheets and you gave him sympathy. In many ways you’re worse than him for without you he might have tried harder, but why should he, with you to run to? All those years of lies, deceit, and beatings! Did you savour your exalted position and laugh at my expense? I bet you did, you cow, you slut. The two of you have ruined my life, and while Mark has paid the price, you, Christine, his accomplice, have not!’

Aisha paused, and looked down at the address book, still open in her hand. But wait, just a minute … now there’s a thought: she knew where Christine lived. And 10c Pleasant Road wasn’t so very far away, well within walking distance, if she fancied a walk .

Which she did.

‘I think it’s time I paid you a visit, Christine, and found out what’s really been going on.’

Aisha snapped shut the address book and dropped it on the bureau beside the photograph, then took off her coat, and leaving it on the hall stand, went upstairs and into the main bedroom. The smell had gone, and there was no shadow lurking in the corner. She closed the bedroom window and then stopped still. It was all very well thinking she was going to wash and change before she visited Christine but what exactly was she going to change into? No point in looking in her wardrobe; she went instead to the built-in cupboard and took down the old cardboard box containing her belongings from home. Carefully removing the china ornaments and school certificates, she took out the flat tissue-wrapped parcel beneath. She knew what was in it, she’d recognized it before when she’d been searching for her driving licence. Carefully unwrapping the tissue paper, she took out the only decent piece of clothing she possessed – specially made for her, and worn once at her graduation fifteen years before. It was her one and only sari.

She shook out the long piece of gaily printed blue silk. She remembered her mother saying that blue suited her, and her father had called it ‘becoming’. Draping it over her arm, Aisha went to the small cabinet which contained her few clothes, and took out the cream bodice which went under the sari and which fortuitously she had kept, and a clean pair of pants. With her thoughts calmer and more focused than they had been in days, possibly years, she crossed the landing and entered the bathroom. It was cold, but there was no hint of his aftershave. She closed the window and laid the sari carefully on the toilet lid, then took off her old clothes and turned on the shower. Once the water had run hot, she stepped under the shower. It felt good, purifying, and she wondered why she hadn’t done it sooner – with Mark gone she could have a hot shower whenever she wanted; she must remember that, she thought.

The steam rose around her and Aisha reached for the tablet of lavender soap and worked it into a lather between her palms. She ran it all over her body, once, twice, three times, then watched the jet of water carry the suds in a murky stream towards and down the plughole. There wasn’t any shampoo, it had run out a long while ago and she’d never had the money to replace it. She had thrown away all Mark’s shampoo, so she would have to use the soap, just as she did for the children’s hair. But whereas Sarah’s and James’s hair was always well groomed and washed regularly, hers was now so greasy and matted she found it impossible to work it into a lather. She tried again and again, rubbing the soap directly into her hair, but while her scalp felt reasonably clean, when she tried to massage the lather though to the ends of her hair, her fingers caught in the knotted strands and wouldn’t go any further than her shoulders. There was nothing else for it, she decided; she’d have to cut it.

Rinsing off the last of the soap, Aisha turned off the shower and stepped out. Using the one remaining towel, which had been hers and the children’s, and was clean although threadbare, she dried herself, and then pulled on her pants and bodice. She turned to the wall cabinet and slid open the glass door and felt along the otherwise empty shelves for the scissors. She knew she’d kept the scissors because they were hers, given to her by her mother when she had left home. Although Mark had commandeered them, recognizing their quality, he had never used them so they were not tainted and could be kept. ‘A good quality pair of scissors is essential,’ her mother had said as she trimmed Aisha’s hair when she’d been living at home.

Her fingers alighted on the cold metal and she took down the scissors, then flexed them open and shut a couple of times, watching the sharp metal blades clash together. Turning to the mirror over the sink, she rubbed the glass clear of mist with the towel and examined what she saw. How thin she was! She knew she had lost weight, her trousers were loose, but she hadn’t realized just how much. Her ribs stuck out from under the cream bodice so much so she could count them. And her hip bones, once rounded, now jutted either side of her concave stomach, and were visible at the top of her pants. Nothing she could do about it now, she thought, it would take months to put the weight back on, and fortunately no one was going to see. ‘Best get down to the job in hand,’ she said stoically.

Aisha looked at her hair in the mirror. ‘Now, where to cut? Here or here?’ She ran the open blades up and down her straggling wet hair. ‘Or we could be daring and go for a completely new style. Yes, why not? We’ll have a neat bob like Belinda’s, that will impress Christine.’ And for a moment Aisha thought she should also blame Belinda – for bringing Mark and her together, but decided Mark was such a good liar he could have fooled anyone.

Aisha separated out a manageable clump of hair, and placing the open scissors at chin level, slowly closed the blades. A thick skein of long wet hair dropped to the floor and lay snake-like at her feet. She checked in the mirror. ‘Not perfect, but it will do. After all, it’s not the queen I’m going to visit, more a scheming bitch!’

Using her chin as a guideline, Aisha set about the rest, cutting as far as she could see round one side, and then going round the other. Snip. Snip. Snip. The hair rained down and formed a circle at her feet.
A magic circle
, she thought,
protecting me from evil.

With both sides more or less the same length, all that remained was the clump at the very back. This was going to be more difficult as it was impossible to see that far round. ‘What I could really do with is a friend to help me,’ she said, ‘but I haven’t got any of those, have I? You saw to that!’ She grabbed the final skein of hair, and drawing it up and forwards, over the top of her head, placed the open blades where it looked about right. An estimate, but preferable to leaving it looking like a Mohican with one long strand down her back. She made the cut and the skein came away in her hand: she threw it on the floor with the rest.

Aisha stared at the results in the mirror. One side appeared to be slightly longer than the other, but she couldn’t do much about that without starting all over again, and making it shorter all round.
Once it’s dry
, she thought,
it probably won’t be so noticeable.
She gave her hair a good rub on the towel and shook her head, the hair fanned out and settled. Not bad, and it felt so much lighter, and made her feel lighter too. She picked up the sari, and pinching one end, held it to her waist, and began wrapping it round, then up and over her shoulder, as her mother had taught her as a child. She tucked the end into the waist and stood in front of the mirror, arms hanging loosely at her sides. Aisha barely recognized the Asian woman who stared back, her face thin, eyes wild, and determination set in her features.