Alice and the Fly (23 page)

I tore two plastic patio chairs from the overgrown grass. We sat. We watched the fire. We listened to it crackle. You put on your sunglasses, the flames dancing in their lenses. The heat baked our faces. After a while there was a crash and a billowing of sparks as the roof fell in. We moved our chairs back a little. A column of smoke towered up into the sky.

‘Do you have any cigarettes?’

I offered you the packet. You took one and stepped over to the fire, holding the tip to the flames. Then you sat again and we smoked, passing the cigarette back and forth. I could smell Scraps. He smelt like any other burning meat. I was sure you could smell him too, but neither of us mentioned it. You took out the half-bottle of whiskey and we drank, a taste hotter than the fire. By the end I’d learnt not to grimace as I sipped.

Then the sirens started. I asked what you wanted to do.

‘Can we go somewhere?’ you said. ‘I don’t think I want to be here any more.’

I nodded. ‘I know somewhere we can go.’

By the time we left the house a crowd had gathered. They let out a collective gasp when they saw us, as if they were shocked anything could have survived the fire. Somewhere the sirens still whirred. The old lady from next door shuffled over, still in her dressing gown.

‘Are you OK, dear?’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine,’ you said.

You tried to hurry past but the old lady grabbed you, hugging you to her chest.

‘Don’t you worry, love, they’re on their way.’

You wriggled free and pushed on through the crowd. The old lady cried out your name but you just wiped your eyes and screamed that she should fuck off and mind her own business. The crowd glared.

I kept my head down and followed. You didn’t stop till you reached the corner. You glanced in both directions, then leant against the wall, hood up, head slumped.

‘I don’t even know where we’re going.’

I led us the rest of the way. You were wrapped in your coat, the one with the red fur trim. My parka had burnt up with Scraps so you’d lent me your father’s leather jacket, which was enormous on me, the sleeves hanging to knee-level. It was the smallest you’d been able to find. You held on to the cuff, head down, occasionally sniffing.

Then the snow started. You were shaking and I wanted to hug you to me, to keep us both warm, but I didn’t. The sirens were getting louder. At one point you shoved me, stumbling from the pavement, into the street. There was a set of three grids, veiled by the thin layer of snow.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Didn’t see it.’

You nodded and took my sleeve again.

We didn’t stop again till we reached the Rat and Dog. You wanted to scavenge for booze. The pub was shut, the crowds having returned home, but you found a half-drunk bottle of wine under one of the tables out front and we carried on walking, you taking the occasional swig.

As we crossed the dual carriageway the fire engine came roaring past us, lights flashing, sirens screaming. By the time we reached the church its sirens had ceased and the only sound was our feet, creaking on the snow.

I asked if you’d ever been inside the church.

‘Once, maybe.’

‘I used to go there when I was little,’ I said. ‘My nan used to take me.’

‘What does that mean?’

You nodded to the church sign.

It said:

GOD WELCOMES ALL

INTO THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

‘I guess it’s to try get people inside. All different sorts of people. Rather than just old ladies.’

‘You reckon it’s ever worked?’

I shrugged.

You downed what was left of the wine and tossed the empty bottle at the sign. It shattered, dislodging some of the letters.

Now it said:

GOD WE OMES ALL

INTO THE KI G OM OF HEAVEN

‘Why’d you do that?’ I said.

You shrugged.

I crossed the lawn and picked up the letters and slotted them back into place. I kicked the broken glass into the flower bed. You sat on the wall and watched. Then you took my sleeve and we carried on, across the street to Kirk Lane.

It’s always a shock to see Nan’s house again. It’s amazing how much damage we did just by leaving, just by not being there. The front windows are long since smashed (presumably by Pitt kids) and boarded (presumably by my father), the front garden a mass of overgrown brambles and grass. I doubt it’s still on the market. The ‘For Sale’ sign’s still there but it’s slipped down the side of the hedge now, just the F and the O visible through the leaves.

I remember when we first moved out Mum wanted to lower the price and get rid, but my father said she couldn’t just give away her childhood home like that. My father had this theory that one day the government were going to bulldoze the Pitt and they’d give us a good price for the place. A year or so later (when the government still hadn’t bulldozed the Pitt) my father organised a few viewings, though nothing ever came of them. Since then they’ve stopped discussing it. My father still comes down here sometimes, though, with his secretaries.

‘This it?’ you said.

I nodded. You looked it up and down, frowning, as if you didn’t believe someone could live there. I explained that I didn’t have keys, that the only way in was round the back. Were you OK to wait?

You glanced up the street. Everything was still and silent now that we’d stopped walking. I thought I could make out the sigh of each snowflake, landing on the shoulders of your father’s jacket.

You nodded.

I hurried through the alley to the back wall. Climbing over was tricky, due to the usual broken-glass-scattered-across-the-top-of-the-wall-like-rows-of-glittering-shark-teeth Pitt trespassing deterrent. The bricks were slick with ice and the hole in my hand was screaming with pain and at one point I slipped and caught my elbow on the glass and tore your father’s jacket. The garden is still a graveyard of Nan’s old plant tubs and there was a fairly large one (more like a trough, really) running along the back wall, packed with soil, which helped break my fall. I stumbled over to the kitchen window and climbed up, only then realising I’d left a shoe behind in the plant tub. There were more important things to think of, though. You were still out there, out front, alone. I had to get inside and let you in.

There’s a trick to the window. Jiggle the handle and the lock falls right out. It was stiff and stuck to the frame with grime but I forced it open as wide as I could and wriggled through, tumbling head first into the kitchen. The tiles were furred with a layer of dust. I tried not to think of how many potential webs were about. I reached for the light switch and was relieved to find the lights still worked, the electricity was still on. It was a shock to see it again, the kitchen. It didn’t look the same somehow. It was all there – the table and chairs, the old gas cooker, the fridge complete with photographs of Sarah and me, held in place by various colourful magnetic letters – but something wasn’t right about it, something wasn’t the same. It was like a replica, like a display in some museum. I didn’t linger for long. I hurried out through the hallway to the front door. I knew I had to find you. I knew I had to get you inside.

The street was empty. All was still but for the snow – thick now, falling fast. I figured you had run home. To a friend’s, maybe. Angela’s. Ian’s. Goose’s. I figured you’d sobered in the cold and thought better of me.

Then I noticed your hair, spilt across the pavement at the end of the path.

I waded through the grass to the front gate. You were laid out, shivering, flecked with snow. I dragged the gate open. I knelt to you.

‘Alice.’ I shook your shoulder. ‘Alice.’

You turned away from me.

‘Let’s go inside,’ I said.

‘I’m tired.’

‘Me too. Let’s go inside.’

I helped you to your feet, brushing the snow from the fur of your coat. By now you must’ve forgotten about the hole in my hand because you held it tight, clutching for balance. You didn’t let go till we’d crossed the lawn, till we were safely inside the house.

You sat on the stairs while I bolted the door.

‘This is where you live?’

I thought about explaining but I couldn’t think of how to explain, so I just nodded.

‘It’s even colder than out there.’

I bent down to the cupboard under the stairs. ‘I’ll switch on the boiler. It’ll warm up soon.’

You picked at the sleeve of your coat. ‘I want to sleep. Where can I sleep?’

‘I’ll show you.’

I led you upstairs. I weighed up the options. Nan’s room was safest, but I thought all the parcel tape might freak you out, so I took you over to my old room instead. The window was adequately boarded so I figured it’d be warm enough, plus there’d be less light to disturb you in the morning. You bobbed down onto the mattress. There was still that old bedding on it, the
Peanuts
bedding, with Snoopy and Charlie Brown and all the rest. ‘Happiness is being part of the gang’ it says. You stared down at your lap.

After a minute or two you appeared to be asleep. I turned to leave.

‘Wait,’ you said.

I stopped in the doorway.

‘Stay.’

I shut the door. I sat beside you on the bed. I don’t know how long we sat there. You continued to stare at your lap. You stroked your coat cuff. You kept opening your mouth as if to speak, then closing it again and shaking your head. The pipes clunked around us. They made sounds like bowling balls, rolling through the walls.

‘It’s the heating,’ I said. ‘It’s temperamental.’

You nodded. You motioned to my hand. Blood had soaked through the tights, leaking onto the quilt between us. My fingers were sticky with it. I wiped them on my trousers. My new Christmas trousers, stained with blood. I felt sick.

‘You need a new bandage.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said. Then, after a few seconds, ‘I cut my elbow, too.’ I showed you the tear in your father’s jacket. ‘Sorry.’

You didn’t look up. You were staring at something.

‘You lost a shoe,’ you said.

I glanced at my sock, caked in mud. I told you I’d lost it in a flower tub. You snorted a laugh. Then you squealed. I glanced around – at first I thought it was the pipes. Then you did it again, a short sharp squeal. You giggled, looking up at me, hand over your mouth. You pointed to your throat. You did it again, shoulders jerking.

Hiccups.

I laughed too. With each squeal our laughter grew, which only made the hiccupping worse. Tears spilt from under your glasses, lining your cheeks. I asked if you wanted a glass of water. You shook your head and coughed the word ‘Cigarette’ and I took the packet from my pocket and gave it to you. You lit up. You hiccupped the first drag, spilling its smoke into the air around us.

The second you breathed down, held in your chest.

You sighed.

‘Sorry,’ you said, the smoke escaping with your words. ‘I’m not a regular drinker.’

‘Me neither.’

You offered me the cigarette. I took a drag and passed it back and you placed it between your lips. You coughed a couple of times but you didn’t hiccup again.

After a while, you sighed. ‘It was my dad.’

‘I know.’

‘He’s not a bad man. Not really.’

I didn’t reply.

‘He just loses it sometimes. Takes it out on others. Scraps …’

‘That’s why you wanted to shoot him?’

‘Yes. I still am going to shoot him. Next time I see him. And not in the hand.’ You shook your head. ‘That’s if I ever see him again. Which I won’t. I’m not going back there. Not now Scraps is gone.’

‘I know somewhere we can go.’

‘We?’

I looked down at my feet. My one shoe. You took another drag.

‘We,’ you said, as if answering your own question.

You rested your head on my shoulder. Your hands lay palm-up on your lap. Your hair smelt of smoke.

‘You went to the party, right?’

‘Right.’

‘How was it?’

‘Busy.’

‘You see Goose? Was he sad? Was he missing me?’

Before I could answer you snorted, a sort of laugh I couldn’t equate to anything.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t see him.’

We didn’t speak for a while. I don’t know how long. I could feel the warmth of your body next to mine. The weight of your head on my shoulder.

‘I forgot to say,’ you said. ‘Happy New Year.’

‘Happy New Year.’

Soon after that you began to snore. I shifted so I could see you – mouth hanging open, cigarette smouldering. I peeled the butt from your bottom lip and stubbed it out on the headboard.

I stood, laying you out on the mattress.

‘Goodnight,’ I said.

I slid the quilt out from under you. You shuddered in your sleep. I was in the process of tucking you in when you sat up, your face inches from mine.

You glanced round the room.

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘You’re here.’

You lifted your glasses, propping them in your hair like a headband. Your eyes were wide, pupils dilated into two black coins. Your eyelashes had begun to grow back, just bristles at the moment. Half-formed wishes in the making.

You examined my face, from my scruffy bowl of hair to the tip of my chin. Then you shut your eyes and leant forward, all the way forward, until your cold lips were pressed against mine. You smiled, sighing through your nose, your breath hot against my chin. I didn’t dare move. I didn’t dare breathe. I just crouched there, watching.

Your eyes opened again.

‘Happy New Year.’

Your head tipped forward, your eyes focusing on my shirt collar. A frown dipped your brow. I glanced down, thinking there was maybe a stain or something.

Then you heaved. Your sick splattered my chest, warm and whiskey-stinking. It ran down the front of my Christmas jumper. You heaved again, all down the front of your dress this time. Your sunglasses slipped back over your eyes. You retched twice more but nothing came.

Then you slumped back, asleep.

For a minute I just crouched there, counting each vomit-drip as it dotted the duvet. You lay still, mouth open, chin glistening. Your lap was puddled, a pale red-wine liquid the consistency of spit. The odd fleck of unidentifiable foodstuff.

‘Alice,’ I said.

I shook your shoulder. Everything smelt of whiskey.