A Song for Joey (15 page)

Time passed. I had no way of knowing even if it was day or night, but gradually my eyes
adapted to the darkness, and I could see the layout of the room in shades of grey and
black. A thin slice of light shone across the floor from the room beyond, through a gap
under the door. I walked over and gave an experimental twist to the knob, and pulled, to
be sure it was really locked. It was a heavy, solid wooden door with an old mechanism,
which rattled as I tried it. Immediately, there was the sound of a fist hitting the door on
the opposite side, and a voice shouting something incoherent. I jumped back.

I returned to my chair and sat down again, frustrated, angry and very scared. I thought
about Oliver, and hoped that Burroughs was lying about him being beaten up, though it
had certainly looked that way in the last seconds I had seen him. I also thought about our
short time together again and our feelings for each other. It seemed that we were doomed
to be dragged apart every time we met.

I think I dozed off a few times, I'm not sure, but I was pacing around the walls like a
caged animal when the light was switched on again; it startled me and I cried out, holding
my hands up to cover my eyes, which were watering from the sudden, unexpected
brightness. The door was unlocked and the creature called Hoss came in bearing a tray.
He gestured for me to sit in the chair and, when I had obeyed, he put the contents down on
the bare concrete floor, his eyes constantly on me, and departed wordlessly with the tray.
The lock clicked and scraped and the light went out again.

What he left behind was illuminated by the narrow searchlight that shone beneath the
door: a paper plate with some bread and cheese on it, and a plastic mug of cold tea. Little
though it was, I was glad to see it. I guessed that about eight hours had passed since
Oliver and I had left his bedsit. By my estimate, that would make it about six in the
evening, and I had eaten nothing since waking that morning.

The feeding process was repeated again, about another eight hours later, at what I
guessed to be about two am. This time it was the cold remains of a Chinese takeaway and
a plastic cup of flat beer. It tasted good. Afterwards, I resumed my pacing, round and
round the room, re-running in my mind the events that got me into this mess, thinking of
all the things I could have done instead, trying to work out a plan of escape. Failing.

After a while, I returned to my chair and napped for a little while. Then, my brain still
seething with memories and thoughts, I paced the walls again for a while, then sat down
and dozed, then walked some more. It seemed to me that something like ten hours had
passed when I thought I heard a distant voice. I closed my eyes, waiting for the light to
come on and another meal to be delivered, but nothing happened. I opened them again,
and looked around the room, scolding myself for imagining things.

Beginning to feel really hungry, I stood by the door, listening for any activity. Trying not
to make a sound, not even breathing, I strained my ears for the slightest murmur, but
heard nothing. I let out my breath in a fierce puff, then sat down again and waited.

"Who's there?" I demanded.
"
It's me, Bell
," came the voice.
"Joey? But you're dead."
"
I know, funny, innit? I've come to help - go and check the door.
"
I did as he said, but heard no sound from outside. Nervously I hammered on the wood

I pushed and pulled at the handle again, to see if the door would move. It was still just
as solid as the previous time, but the lock and handle were very old, and seemed quite
slack.

"
They've gone out, Bell. This is your chance to escape
."
"Oh sure. You didn't happen to see where they put the key, did you?"
"
Very witty. You'll have to break the lock
."
I cast around in the semi-darkness for a way to get the door open, but there were no

tools in the room, nothing but the table and two chairs - old, heavy wooden chairs with
curved, slatted backs. Heavy enough to break a lock? I picked up one and, holding it by
two of its legs, raised it above my head and smashed it down on the floor, seeing the back
splinter satisfyingly and fly off, leaving just the heavy seat attached to the legs.

At the door, I lifted it aloft again and swung it in an arc to crash down on the doorknob.
Again and again I bashed at it, sweating and swearing with the effort, each time
weakening it a little more. One leg snapped off the chair, so I changed my grip and kept
hammering.

When a second leg came away, I put the battered remains down and tried the door again
- it was definitely loose. I threw my shoulder against it. People did that in the films and
the door always splintered and flew open, but not my door, all I managed to do was hurt
my arm. "Silly cow!" I thought. "It opens inwards." I pulled at the handle, now hanging
loosely, and felt the door move a little. "There must be something I can use as a lever," I
thought, scanning the empty room.

I looked up. Screwed to the back of the door was a metal coat hook. I swung at it with
one of the broken chair legs, and it flew off. Grinning happily, I picked it up and inserted
it into the gap that had opened between the door and frame, pulling with all my strength.
Suddenly the door flew open; I stumbled backwards and fell on the floor.

There was no time to lose; they could appear any minute, and it would be bad for me if
they found me now. Jumping back to my feet, I ran through the opening into the next
room.

In the dim light from an open hatch at the far end, I could see that it was packed with
boxes, crates and barrels, and I recognised it at once. "It's the cellar of the Bricklayers," I
said out loud, triumphantly. I was on familiar ground.

Running past the mass of kegs and pipes and up the stone steps, I reached ground level
in seconds and paused to listen for any activity. The place was silent. I turned towards the
front door to make good my escape, but stopped, a thought pricking the back of my mind;
there was something I wanted to do first. I headed in the opposite direction, up the stairs
towards the flat.

As I hoped, it was deserted. Anxiously, I headed towards the bedroom and lifted the
mattress on the filthy double bed upon which Burroughs had relieved his sexual desires so
many times on my unfeeling, unresponsive body. Shaking off the unpleasant memory, I
groped underneath. It was still there, a fat pillowcase, which I knew held Gary's illegal
stash.

I hauled it out onto the floor, then grabbed my battered suitcase from the top of the
wardrobe and tipped the mass of notes into it, spilling some over the sides, there was so
much, pushing it down tight until the little case was bulging. As I snapped it shut I looked
around the room with a surge of exhilaration at my newly acquired power, to see if there
was anything else I could do. My eyes took in the peeling paper, the damp patches, the
stained rugs - what a dump! How had I sunk so low?

Suddenly a sense of rage rose inside me against the man who had so debased me. I
wanted revenge.
I went back to the wardrobe and lifted the loose panel that I knew lay in the bottom of it,
under a pile of smelly shoes. There, in the hollow of the base, was a plastic bag containing
his stock of drugs - folded paper packets of cocaine, pouches of cannabis, syringes and
phials of substances I didn't even know the names of. All the filth in which he had
become a dealer.
Seeing that stuff for the first time since my last shot, my stomach lurched, and I
suddenly realised how vulnerable I still was. Oliver had given me a precious finger-hold
on sanity, but when I saw those drugs, my addiction kicked in again and I felt a craving
rise up instantly in my chest. My hands shaking, I carried the bag into the bathroom and,
with an effort of will, emptied its contents into the toilet, feeling a surge of pleasure.
"Take that, you bastard," I muttered as I flushed it away.
Back in the bedroom, I took my favourite red coat from the wardrobe, picked up my
suitcase and, pausing only to stuff a handful of loose notes into my pockets, ran down the
stairs and opened the front door.
There I paused my flight for a quick peek up and down the road, to make sure no-one
was approaching. The heavy shadows on the houses opposite showed me that the sun was
still low behind me, in the east - it was not as late as I had thought. With a shock I realised
that Burroughs and his thug could simply have been asleep when I smashed my way out
of the cellar, and would have been rather upset at my actions; they would have killed me,
of that I was sure. Well, they weren't asleep, they weren't even in the building. I couldn't
guess where they were, nor did I care, as long as they weren't where I was.
"
Joey?"
I asked, tentatively. There was no reply. Wherever he was, he had decided I was
doing all right on my own.
The street was deserted. With no further hesitation, I ran down Nelson Road towards the
town centre, the railway station, and a new life.

Great Yarmouth railway station echoed with memories as I arrived and walked towards
the ticket office. This time, the gates were open and the entrance thronged with busy
humanity, but my mind was filled with images of a dark night and a little man who
became my brother. I paused in the doorway where, a year earlier, I had met a heap of
boxes and been sick after drinking my first whisky. Pensively, I looked left at the doorway
where I had slept for six months and found my other half.

Glancing over my shoulder, still apprehensive that Burroughs would appear in hot
pursuit, I hurried to the ticket desk, pulling a pound note from my coat pocket to pay my
fare to Norwich. Minutes later, two shillings poorer and clutching my ticket, I stood on
the platform, waiting for the train to arrive. I still couldn't believe that I had made it, and
half expected Gary and his thugs to leap from hiding and carry me back into captivity, or
death. Suddenly fearful, I pressed myself into the wall, trying to become invisible.

But only the train arrived, air-brakes hissing, diesel engine throbbing, the warm,
chemical smell of burnt fuel and hot oil surrounding it like a cloak as it waited to retrace
its magical silver trail to the city. Soon I was seated in emerald green plush, in my best red
coat and Oliver's jeans, staring nervously at the station entrance, watching every face that
appeared.

After what seemed hours, I felt a throbbing through my feet as the great engine revved
up, then the carriage gave a slight jerk as we began moving. The station buildings slipped
by, and the great lake that was Breydon Water drifted into view, declaring the outskirts of
Great Yarmouth and the start of open countryside, the marshes and windmills of Norfolk
painting a scene of ancient rural tranquillity, in stark contrast to the nightmare I was
escaping. I laughed gaily - I was free, I had more cash than I had ever owned in my entire
life, and I was embarking on a new life, a fresh start.

After a little while, the swaying of the carriage induced a more introspective mood, and
I thought again about Oliver. What had happened to him? I tried to reach out my mind to
him - calling his name silently - but nothing came back, not even an echo of my own
thought.

Through the window, the streams and marshes and flat fields of Norfolk slipped past
like a parade, accompanied by the rhythmic, clockwork sound of the wheels on the tracks,
adding more miles between us. I tried Joey, maybe he could find out for me, but he wasn't
there either.

In half an hour, Norwich station arrived like a surprise guest at a party, and everyone
spilled from the doors of the train onto the platform. I was carried out on the surge, then
stood entranced, turning left and right to take it all in, jostled by angry travellers who
grumbled as they pushed past this stupid girl who was daydreaming in their way.

There were six platforms - six! Most were bustling with activity - men cleaning and
oiling the enormous green, red and black engines, families and business people walking
or running to get into or out of the carriages, carrying suitcases or briefcases, talking,
laughing, frowning. It was a carnival of colour and noise that filled me with excitement.

To a simple provincial girl, who had only ever known a small coastal town, Norwich
assaulted the senses with noise, activity and sheer size. I emerged from the railway
station, blinking in the bright, late-afternoon sunlight, carrying no possessions except my
brown suitcase stuffed with money. Only my money! I smiled at the thought. I was rich
enough to do almost anything I liked, buy anything I needed.

The station nestled in a junction of two busy roads, controlled by traffic lights, beside a
river. Beyond the rooftops, a square castle stood at the top of a hill. A hill! There were no
hills in Great Yarmouth, where the land seemed to emerge from the sea just enough to
keep its feet dry, then was too tired to rise any further.

Once again, people barged into me, as I stopped, blocking the station doorway, taking in
the unfamiliar scenery, uncertain which direction to take.
The train ride had given me time to think and plan. First I needed something to eat - my
last meal had consisted of bread and cold tea, and that had been about fifteen hours ago.
Following the finger of the river as it pointed away to my right, I saw an elegant spire rise
high above the trees and chimneys. And there, in my line of sight, was the illuminated
sign of a café; my tummy rumbled, and in my pocket, my spending cash called out to me.