A Smaller Hell (8 page)

It was a bitter morning, despite the flawless blue skies and the bright, low sun making every building in town monumental.  Even the blackened red brick of the terraced houses on the outskirts seemed more quaint than dilapidated in the sunrise.  The trainers slung over the telephone lines swayed in the breeze like sacrificial offerings to the gods of the street, while its cobbles sparkled like potatoes in a farmer's cart on my way into town. 

I sat outside a café, cradling a hot coffee.  The warmth brought my fingers back to life as I sat at one of the outdoor tables to observe the natives edging about in the wintry sun.  The dark nectar stuck in my throat as my eyes fell upon one who looked wounded.

‘Emma?’ 

It was the hooker who had been haunting my nightmares since that night in the Captain's Rest.  She was barely recognisable as the girl who had teased me in the cellar of the pub a few days before.  She limped through the amber concrete of the precinct, head down to avoid catching anyone’s eye. 

‘Emma!’ 

She turned to survey me with the one good eye she had left and said nothing as she hobbled over to my table, keeping her eye fixed on me as she approached.  I felt her body tremble under the burden of her injuries as I helped her into the chair.  She was dressed like any other teenage girl out shopping, except that she was wearing a baseball cap to conceal her face.

‘Can I get you something?’ 

She flinched as I rested my hand on hers. 

‘What would you like?’ I asked her.

‘Something soft,’ she mumbled, her swollen jaw impeding her speech.

I bought her a large cappuccino and the biggest, most chocolatey muffin I could find.  I saw a hint of a smile as I placed them in front of her. 

‘I'm sorry I didn’t stop it,’ I said.

‘You’re the only reason I’m still breathing,’ she said in a voice that was tired and gentle, a far cry from her coke-fuelled jabbering the other night.
  She
broke the muffin up in her fingers and fed herself tiny morsels.  ‘I can’t find Tina.  No-one's seen her since.’

‘Is there no-one you can contact?  Did she have any family?’

Emma shook her head and continued gumming her muffin like a child consoling herself with sweets.  ‘I was her only family.’

‘Could she have got away?’ I asked.

She shook her head and started to cry.  ‘I don’t know.’

People had begun to stare, so I picked up our coffee and food and put an arm around her to lead her away.  As soon as I touched her, she put her arms round me and wouldn't let go.  The murmuring of the diners was halted by the chime of a jingle bell as the café's door opened.  In walked Rachel, who looked shocked.

‘Perfect,’ she said, glaring at Emma before pushing past us and striding back out of the café and disappearing into the crowds.

The black cab drove us through the wasteland between the docks and the ghost estate.  On this side of the no-man's-land were cranes, vats, tunnels, bridges and overhead walkways.  On the other was razor wire, smashed glass, burnt out windows, anti-Thatcher sentiments sprayed on corrugated iron and huge piles of ash on which were strewn mattresses and prams.  Upon closer inspection, the braver archaeologist would find smaller relics in the form of discarded needles, contraceptives, underwear and crack pipes.  Some of the syringes were huge, harking back to the golden brown days of the eighties.

The cab dropped us off in an apartment block forecourt that looked like an Audi dealership. Emma hobbled through the foyer and over to the lift, pressing the illuminated arrow with her shaking hand tipped with broken fingernails.  I watched her hunched over in the glow of the lift panel, trembling and breathing like an old woman.  When the lift arrived, she pushed the button for the penthouse.

 The apartment was well-furnished and decorated, but looked like it had been abused by a teenager home alone.  Skimpy outfits lay strewn about the furniture, the PVC and Lycra at odds with the fine leather of the three-piece suite. 

‘Would you like to watch TV?’ she asked, picking up the remote for the huge plasma TV lurking in the corner. 

She tried to tidy up, staggering about with piles of her work clothes gathered up from the couch.

‘I really should be going, anyway.’

‘Please stay.
 
I have something I need to show you,’ she mumbled, turning away to limp into another room.

The penthouse smelled of vodka, coconut skin cream and takeaway food, above the expensive herbs and spices in kitchen racks.

‘Are you a cook, then?  You've got some good stuff here,’ I shouted to her.

‘Tina’s the cook.  You should try her
dolphin nose
potatoes.’ 

I picked up a pouch of saffron and sniffed it, before inspecting the kitchenware.

‘Would you come and help me with something, please?’ she called from another room.

I put down the colander and followed Emma's voice. 

‘In here.’

I pushed open the door to what looked like a bedroom.  Incense smoke curled and wafted about the room, which was dimly lit with candles.  On the bed, Emma beckoned in black lingerie, having positioned her hair to hide her bruises.  It tumbled over her sculpted, petal white shoulders and led my gaze down to her chest, her belly button piercing, to the flawless skin of her thighs and hips. 

‘You don't have to look at my face,’ she mumbled through her bruised mouth and black hair, which was draped over her blackest eye.  I could feel the blood thudding through my body as I turned away and took off my heavy Crombie jacket to cover her with it. 

‘Don't you want me?’ Emma asked me with her dewy, bruised eyes.

‘Part of me does,’ I said.

‘Can I guess which part?’ she said, reaching for my belt. 

I pulled her hand away and held it.  I stood over her, looking at her hair splashed all over the pillow like a Rorschach inkblot.  ‘I'm in love with someone else.’

‘So was I,’ she said, pulling her hand away from mine. 

The candles crackled as the wind howled at the window.

‘Can I come and live with you?’ she asked.

I looked around the plush apartment.  ‘You’d change your mind as soon as you opened the ... There isn't even a front door.’

Emma pulled the Crombie around her and sat up on the bed.
 
‘Do you want to come and live here?’

I was tired of hiding in that house; tired of fending off rats from my bedding and tired of having to wait until getting into work to use the bathroom.
 

‘How much is the rent?’ I asked.

‘Nothing.  It's mine.’

‘How ...?’

Emma got up off the bed and beckoned me into the hallway, where she stopped and pointed to a picture of an old man leaning on a cane.  He had a white beard and kind eyes, which smiled along with his whole face, despite its gaunt, hollow appearance.

‘He left me the apartment … In return for something.’

I looked at her, urging her to elaborate.

‘I'd rather not say.’ 

She blew a kiss to the photograph and went to the kitchen and clinked about in the fridge before emerging with a bottle of Stoli.  Having poured us both large measures, she sank hers and poured another.

‘It was what he wanted.  I tried to talk him out of it,’ she spoke into the glass before taking a gulp. 

The silence was broken only by the hum of traffic in the distance.  Emma's minimalist Christmas decorations consisted of a string of red fairy lights twinkling around the large window in the living room.  The light refracted through the ice in our tumblers, illuminating our faces as if we were contemplating our respective hells from a distance. 

‘So ... will you stay?’

Sitting with Rachel in the store’s restaurant, I tried to explain what had been going on. 

‘I couldn't stay where I was.’ 

‘Of all people to move in with, though,’ Rachel said, trying to keep her voice down in the store’s restaurant. 

‘I realise it’s … She's not that bad, you know.’

‘You were there stood right next to me in the Captain's Rest, weren't you?’

‘Only because
you
wanted to stay.’ 

I knew this was a mistake as soon as the words escaped my lips.  A hard slap stung my cheek and the cutlery clattered on the table as she stood up and ran out of the restaurant, sobbing.  In the silence that fell over the whole restaurant, I could hear the screams of Cupid being boiled alive until Doyle’s voice summoned me over the speaker system.

‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ Doyle said, leafing through documents on her desk.  ‘But we can't have performances like that in front of customers, can we?’

I didn’t answer.

She tapped her expensive pen against her expensive teeth.  ‘I think we should get Miss Mackenzie in here just to make sure there's no repeat performance.’

She pushed a button on her desk phone, summoned Rachel and smiled at me, giving nothing away about the night at The Captain’s Rest.  Finally, the huge oak door creaked open and I heard Rachel's delicate steps on the polished wood of the office floor.  I glanced outside, noticing that the sky had become stuffed with great black balls of cotton wool blocking out the sun, filling the precinct below with ice and misery.  Rachel sat in the chair next to mine, refusing to look at me.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Mackenzie.  I’ll assume that you know why you are here,’ Doyle said, lighting up a cigarette.  The fire crackled and gusts of wind spat hail at the window.  I had begun to sweat into the fine suit that Miss Allister had given me.

‘I'll take that as a yes, Miss Mackenzie.  I'd advise you to be more co-operative on this matter.  You're not indispensable, even this close to Christmas.’ 

Cracklecrackle.  Rattattatat.

‘I see.  In that case, henceforth, you are forbidden from consorting with each other on the premises of this store until your contracts expire.  At this point they will be reviewed with consideration of your conduct, which is less than satisfactory so far.’

Commander Clarence was looking directly at me.  Waiting. 
Expecting. 
I swallowed my trepidation and spoke up.
 
‘What about
your
conduct?’

Doyle's eyes widened in mock surprise.
 
‘You two are quite the couple.  Have you forgotten our little agreement, Mr. Black?’

‘I never agreed to this,’ I said, pointing at Doyle.  ‘You’re out of your mind.’

As I stood up, Graziano entered and took up his customary position in the huge leather-bound armchair in the shadows.  Commander Clarence's gaze was now fixed downward; his shoulders slumped, exuding an air of defeat.

‘Don't you know it's rude to point?’ Doyle said, smirking in the glow of the flames while Rachel gasped through her hands. 

I was assigned to Toys for the remainder of the week.  It was still dark and icy outside, making the glow of the baubles and the fairy lights in the department all the more homely and inviting.  The most terrible customers came to find shelter for their expensive hairdos rather than shop, choosing me as their target for their pointless inquiries and never buying anything.

Across the store, I could see Rachel, who was still on Cosmetics.  She was being inspected and preened by Doyle's minions; the ones who had ridiculed me within thirty seconds of arriving for my job interview.  She looked humiliated, her dignity ebbing away with each warbled platitude, twist of her hair, daub of make-up. 

Robinson whispered in my ear.  ‘You should just leave.’

He was standing at my side, impeccably dressed, as earnest as ever and pretending to survey the department, checking for stock irregularities or untidiness.
 
I turned to look at Robinson, but he told me turn back around and get the stock book out to keep looking busy.

‘Someone’s going to get hurt,’ he said.  ‘Or disappear like her husband … And that girl’s father.’

‘How do I know that you aren’t part of whatever game she’s playing?’

‘She hasn't even begun yet,’ Robinson said.  ‘You have no idea what you're dealing with, do you?’ 

I forgot about the stock book and turned to look him in the eye.  Robinson made an attempt to look busy, flicking through the pages impatiently, as if searching for something I was unable to find. 

‘Just run,’ he said.

I glanced up from the book to see Rachel sat on a stool being smeared with foundation by one minion, while the other teased her hair.

‘And take her with you.’ 

Robinson adjusted his wedding ring and pointed in the direction of the stock room, ordering me to fetch a box of D batteries.  I glanced back at Rachel to catch her looking at me whilst she was being harassed by the make-up ghouls.

The stock room was cold and lonely, away from the warmth of the store's air conditioning and the giddy bustle of the Christmas shoppers.  The soundtrack to the chaos disappeared when the security door closed behind me, but still I found myself humming
Let it Snow
in the cavernous ambience.  The old mahogany shelves stretched on into darkness in the low light and the heels of my brogues echoed off the high ceiling. 

The
corn for popping
verse was interrupted by a scraping sound coming from three or four aisles away.  My brogues clopped and stuttered on the concrete floor, while the scraping sounded like someone carving a piece of wood.  As I turned the corner, I saw an oil lantern flickering at the far end of the aisle, illuminating a handyman at work.

‘And if you've no place to go ...’

The voice was familiar, deep and tuneless.

I walked closer with smaller steps, the lantern now lighting the concrete beneath my feet, making my shoes look shinier than they were.  I stopped and waited for my companion to finish the chorus.  He didn't.

‘Don't you know the words?’ came the voice from beyond the lantern.

Taken aback, I sang the words quietly.
 
‘Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow?’

Enthusiastic applause filled the air.  It sounded like a number of people instead of just the one crouched before me in the darkness.  Suddenly the figure grabbed the lantern and stood up, striding towards me.

‘A singer in our midst.’

The Captain's face looked grotesque in the flickering golden light of the lantern, but I was glad to see him all the same.

‘What are you so happy about?’

‘Nothing,’ I said.  ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I take the odd job from time to time, when I’m needed,’ the Captain said, opening up a big old handyman’s tool chest that looked more like it should contain buried treasure.  ‘Had your lunch?’

The Captain handed me a soft parcel tied with brown paper and string.  I unwrapped it to find a huge sandwich of soft, grainy bread, thick planks of hot roast beef, mustard and onions.  I puzzled over how he managed to keep it warm in this fridge of a stock room, but I was too busy cramming it into my head to ask.  It tasted as good as it looked.  I nodded at the Captain when he asked me if it was alright.

‘What you give that copper ... That was a five-knuckle butty.’

I began choking on the sandwich.
 
‘How do you know about that?’

The Captain smiled beneath his hefty white beard, his eyes crinkling.  Despite the scars, the weathered, jaundiced skin, the white hair and a bad back, his eyes sparkled with dreams that still lived.  ‘You really clocked him one, lad.’

‘What happened to him?’ I asked.

‘Don't worry.  He deserved it.’

‘He was just doing his job,’ I said, wrapping up the sandwich.

‘If I had a ha'penny for every time I've heard that ...’ the Captain said and stood up, his bones creaking like the deck of an old wooden ship.  He picked up his lantern and his treasure chest and started walking away into the farthest recesses of the stock room, gesturing towards the area where he'd been carving. 

‘I almost forgot: I left a little something for you,’ he said.

I looked and saw my parents’ names elegantly carved into the wood.  ‘Did you know my mother and father?’

The Captain hobbled back over to me and put down his treasure chest.
 
‘I knew your mother and father very well.  Very fine people.’ 

I looked at their names once more and back in the Captain's direction, but he was gone.  I sat down next to the shelf and ran my fingers over their names, remembering them.  I kept touching their names in the wood, as if by doing this I could conjure them back to life.

When I stood up to leave, something caught my eye, glistening in the darkness between the end of the shelf and the wall.  The shelves were more like pews in their build and weight.  I sat down next to the shelf and reached my arm as far in as it would go to try to roll the object out.  With a little finessing, I managed to scrape it towards me so that I could pick it up.  It was an old pewter flask about the size of my hand.  On the back was an engraving:

 
All my love,
Pearl.

I shook the flask to find that it was full.  The heavy screw top clunked against the pewter as I released it and brought the flask to my nose, charmed by a scent that triggered a fireworks display of memories.  It smelled dangerous, as if it could tip the world off its axis and send it spinning into a new galaxy.  I put the flask safe in the inside button pocket of my jacket and looked up to see Graziano racing down the stairs towards me in the darkness, his arms outstretched as if to grab hold of me.