Bucket Nut (6 page)

But I hadn't exactly left her at a bus stop, I'd left her in an out-of-the-way back street which wasn't very posh. So I thought the least I could do was go back and see if she'd gone home.

She was still there.

And that was how Goldilocks came to stay with me at the yard.

I had to fold her up to fit her into the Fiat Panda. I had to carry her through the yard. I had to put her in my own bed.

And as the night wore on I became more and more worried. She was not just drunk, she was ill. She kept on throwing up. She vibrated with chills. And she burned.

I didn't know what to do. Putting a drunk to bed is easy. But I've never been sick in my life so I didn't know what was wrong with her, and I didn't know whether to keep her warm or cool her down.

I found myself rushing around like a one-armed paper hanger.

She'd start shivering and moaning, so I covered her up. Then she'd practically toss the sleeping bag out the window. Then she'd say, ‘Oh Jesus, give me water.' And then she'd throw it all up in the bucket.

Sick people are a pain in the arse.

I didn't like her eyes either. Sometimes they bugged out of her head as if she'd been electrocuted and sometimes they rolled around in their sockets like marbles in a cup.

Like I said, being kind is a lot of hard work, but the worst thing was that I was afraid she was going to die. I didn't know how I'd explain a stiff in my Static, so one of the reasons I rushed around like a rat with an itchy tail was so that she'd stay alive long enough for me to get rid of her in the morning.

But in the morning, just after I'd fed the dogs and put them back in their pen, Goldie drank some water, kept it down and dropped off to sleep. Before she went to sleep she looked at me as if she saw me for the first time, and she said, ‘Thank you.'

Just thank you. But the way she said it, as if she really meant it, made me change my mind about getting shot of her.

I boiled water on my little gas ring and made tea. And then I sat on the end of the bed to look at her as she slept. I found that my hands had gone all trembly, and I had this ache at the back of my throat. I thought maybe I was going to get sick too.

In the end I threw all the sofa cushions on the floor in the main room and went to sleep there. It had been a busy day and I was tired.

I dreamed me and Simone were back at school – one of those ‘approved' schools we kept being sent to in real life. And we decided to bunk off – the way we used to in real life. We came to a wall, and Simone said, ‘No. I can't. It's too big. We'll get into trouble.' ‘We're in trouble already,' I said. ‘Come on, I'll give you a leg up.' She put one
foot in my hands, and I noticed she was wearing white satin slippers with little red jewels in them. ‘Where did you find the shoes?' I asked. And I gave her a leg up onto the wall. ‘They're my glass slippers,' she said. And as I stood there the little red jewels started to fall like rain all around me and into my hair. I stooped to pick them up, because Simone was very particular about her shoes. But they turned to liquid. ‘Hey!' I shouted, ‘you're bleeding.' I looked up and saw for the first time that the top of the wall was covered with razor-wire. And Simone was caught in it. I tried to climb up to help her, but the wall had grown. There was no one to give me a leg up. So she stayed where she was, and I stayed where I was with blood in my hair.

I hate dreams.

It was weird waking up, knowing there was someone in my bedroom. In all the months I lived there no one but me had ever set foot in the Static. I looked in on her, but Goldie was out for the count. She could have been dead. That's how still she lay. But a wisp of goldie hair fluttered every time she breathed out. I was relieved.

I closed the bedroom door tight. There were things I had to do. Things I didn't want a stranger to see.

It was only a few wallets that had sort of fallen into my hands last night, but I didn't want anyone to get the wrong impression. I'm not a thief. Not really. It's just that sometimes I can't bear to pass up an opportunity, and people are so careless. You'll never believe how careless some people are. They leave their jackets hanging on the backs of their chairs with the wallet sticking out of a pocket. They leave their handbags on the floor where they can't keep an eye on them. They're mad. If you've got it and you want to keep it, for Christ's sake protect it. If you don't protect it, you're just telling people like me you don't want it. And if you don't want it, I'll take it. It's as simple as that.

If you want some of mine, you'll have to kill me to get it. That's simple too.

Sorting out the winnings was easy enough. I was only interested in the cash. Plastic just pisses me off. I know there's a market for it – that and driving licences – but I can't be bothered. It's enough bother getting rid of all the excess so it can't be traced back to me.

The cash went straight into my pocket. That left a little pile of wallets.
Normally these would never have reached the Static. They'd have gone into a bin on the way home. But normally I don't rescue Goldies – it upsets my routine.

I was thinking about it when someone knocked on the door and made me half jump out of my skin. Nobody knocks on my door.

There were cushions all over the floor from where I'd slept and my first thought was to kick the wallets under there. But that reminded me of Ma and made me feel a bit sick. So I stuffed them in the back of the paraffin heater.

The knocking came again.

I should've sneaked a gander through the curtains but the knocking made me a bit narked and I did the wrong thing. I wrenched the door open and yelled, ‘What?'

I shouldn't have opened the door at all because I found myself face to face with the lady copper from last night.

‘Afternoon,' she said, and smiled – which really put me on my guard. If you want to survive in this life
never
trust the polizei when it smiles.

‘Eva?' she said. ‘Eva Wylie?'

‘Wrong number,' I said, and slammed the door.

She knocked again. I ignored her.

I squinted through the curtains. She was standing a little way off just waiting. She looked relaxed and cheerful.

Keep it up a little longer, I thought, and I'll wipe that smile off for you. I'm a very patient person, but I was getting a mood on.

I daubed some margarine on a few slices of bread, and opened the jam pot. I hadn't had any breakfast and my blood sugar was probably low. That makes me moody too. Harsh says that an athlete should keep her blood sugar at a constant level, and I do try. But when you live on your own, you sometimes forget.

The lady copper knocked again. I ate three bits of bread and jam. I could wait her out, I thought, she wouldn't hang around all day.

Next time I looked through the curtains she was talking to a couple of yard men. They were having a laugh. That made me feel very narked.

I pulled the door open and stood on the step with my arms folded.

‘Yeah?' I said, very cool. It would've looked better if I'd put the
last slice of bread and jam down, but you can't remember everything in a crisis.

‘Sorry to interrupt your tea,' she said, coming over.

‘What's the time?' I said.

She looked a bit surprised but she said, ‘Twenty past four.'

That brought me up short. I'd overslept. I thought it was only two-ish.

‘I'm looking for Eleanor Crombie,' she said.

‘Who?'

‘Eleanor Crombie. You left that club with her last night.'

‘Oh,' I said. So that was Goldie's real name. It figured. She looked like an Eleanor.

‘Well?' the lady copper said.

‘Well, what?'

‘Where is she?'

‘Who wants to know?' I was going to put my fists on my hips and look threatening but the bread and jam got in the way. I decided to eat it.

‘Me. I want to know,' the lady copper said.

‘Tough tiddles,' I said with my mouth full.

She flicked the crumbs off her shirt and began to look a bit impatient.

I was so pleased about the crumbs, even though it was an accident, that I decided to let up.

‘I don't know where she went,' I said. ‘I got her out of that mess, but that's as far as it went.'

‘I thought she passed out.'

‘All she needed was a breath of fresh air.'

‘You didn't give her a lift anywhere?'

‘No wheels,' I said virtuously.

‘Did anyone pick her up?'

‘Dunno.' I was getting fed up. I took another mouthful of bread, and she took another pace backwards. It's really nice when you make the polizei walk backwards.

‘Do you go there regularly?' she asked.

‘Where?'

‘That club.'

They think they have the right to ask you anything, the polizei. They ask, you answer. If
you
want to know anything, go to the library.

‘See that sign,' I said, pointing to the perimeter fence. ‘That there sign says Armour Protection. That's me. I'm Armour Protection. There's been bugger all thieving off this yard in the last six months. And you want to know for why?'

‘Why?'

‘Because I'm up all night taking care of business. I don't go clubbing regular. Got it?'

‘Okay, okay,' she said. ‘No need to loose your rag.'

‘You ain't seen nothing yet.' I went back into the Static and slammed the door.

This time she went away. I watched through the curtain. She had a very straight back. She'd probably look a treat in uniform, I thought. A back like that was wasted on plain clothes.

I was feeling pretty cheerful. It isn't often the polizei let you get the last word in. Maybe the lady copper was new at the job.

But cheerful or not I had to get rid of the wallets. I nearly got caught in possession and it gave me quite a fright. So I stuck them into last night's empty stew cans and a couple of baked bean tins, collected all the rest of the rubbish and tied up the plastic bin bag. Then I took it all to the skip. It wasn't perfect, but it had to do.

The men in the yard watched me with more interest than usual. They were probably wondering what the polizei wanted. But as usual nobody spoke to me. It was a good thing none of them knew about Goldie or they would have told the lady copper.

As it was, I could imagine what they would have said to her. ‘Nah,' they would've said, ‘Eva lives on her own. No one goes to visit her.' That's what they would have said, because until last night that was the truth.

It is not a good thing to be talked about. In fact it's a bad thing. Someone from Bermuda Smith's club had talked about me and the result was a lady copper on my doorstep. It was funny for two reasons. The first is that not many folk from Bermuda Smith's talk to the polizei. Second – not many folk anywhere know my address.

It was not a lot of comfort to know that the polizei were looking for Goldie not me, because they had found me, not Goldie.

I thought back. All my old probation orders had run out, I was sure, and I didn't think there was anything outstanding they could nick me for. I'd lived a very righteous life for the past six months since I got a job and settled down. But you never know. Once you've got a bad reputation you are never quite in the clear.

I decided to be extra careful about knocking off wallets and borrowing motors. And I checked all my survival kit just to make sure I could move out at a moment's notice.

That reminded me to check on Goldie. She was still sleeping which was a good thing because while she was asleep she couldn't ask for anything and I could calm down and do my exercises. All the same I wondered what she was wanted for. Lying there in my old sleeping bag she looked as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

She was a responsibility. She made me feel tied down. I did forty press-ups to relieve the tension. I wished I could do them on my knuckles like Harsh can but my hands aren't strong enough. After that I did squat-thrusts, and then bridges for my back. The worst bit was the sit-ups. I don't know why, but I find it really difficult to develop a good set of abdominal muscles. My shoulders, back and legs aren't bad, even though I do say it myself. But I sometimes despair of my abs. They just don't look right. Perhaps it's fluid retention. Perhaps I eat too much.

I looked at my London Lassassin poster. The abs didn't look too awful in that. It was just as well. You can't be heavyweight champion with a flabby gut. Well, you can, actually. You should see some of the men. But men and women are judged by different standards when it comes to looks. Don't ask me why, but it's so.

Goldie woke up at ten o'clock. She had slept fourteen straight hours barely moving a muscle. She was a mess – pale and shaky, that golden mop brown with sweat.

I made some tea and opened a tin of tomato soup. She wanted a shower and I tried to explain about the water-heater being electric but she didn't take it in.

‘Can't you just turn the electricity on?' she asked.

I explained about Mr Gambon and the meter, but she just looked bewildered.

‘Where am I?' she asked.

I told her. She looked bewildered and miserable.

‘Why am I here?' she asked. She couldn't remember one single solitary thing about last night.

I told her about the raid, the tear gas and the lady copper.

She looked bewildered, miserable and frightened.

‘Where's my handbag?' she asked.

I told her she left it at Bermuda Smith's club.

‘Oh shit, shit, shit,' she said and looked as if, on top of everything else, she was going to cry.

‘What's in it?' I asked.

She didn't answer. She just flopped back in the bed and stared at the ceiling, a picture of despair.

‘What are the polizei after you for?' I asked.