A door slams and I wake up. My head is on something soft and my feet are pressing against a hard surface. I open one eye; it feels crusty and my vision is blurred. I don’t know where I am. My head throbs and my mouth is dry and sore. I lift my head slowly pushing strands of greasy blonde hair out of my face and look straight into the eyes of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. It is stuffed. A child’s toy. Where the hell am I? I rub my eyes. Pain shoots across the bridge of my nose, and I feel a grittiness on my skin. I’m in a child’s bedroom. In his bed. I look at the pillow and see dried blood and vomit where my head was a moment ago. There’s no-one else here but I hear voices beyond the door. There is an anger in their tone that makes my stomach flip. I hear snatches of the conversation, “Someone’s been sitting…” A man’s voice. “…eaten my..” A woman. And then, “eaten it all up!” A child’s plaintive wail. Footsteps then. Fast, urgent, coming up the stairs and then reaching the door to the room, about to come in. Shit, I think. Remembering.
#
I saw him pretty much every night of the week outside the tube station. He always gave me whatever change he had and a bit of chat. He was friendly in that kind of posh, condescending way that people like him are. I worked with his sort in the temp jobs I had after I dropped out of uni – back when I was still holding it all together. He probably calls the security guy mate and introduces his PA as “the real boss” in that jovial way of people who know they’re at the top of the tree and are used to getting their own way. He was a decent bloke though. He even remembered my name and asked if I was doing ok. Had enough to eat. I wasn’t. Didn’t. But I told him “yeah” and “no problem, but cheers all the same, God bless”. It’s what you’re supposed to say. You have about thirty seconds to massage their virtue and make them feel like they’ve done a good thing so they can go home to their warm homes and their families feeling pleased with themselves. That’s for them. For me it’s just common sense. I want – need – another 50p tomorrow. I’d found this spot a few months ago and came here most nights from about 4 or 5 o’clock to catch the commuters arriving home. Lots of city types with plenty of cash. Although the really posh ones never gave you anything. They couldn’t even bear to look at you as if your obvious failure might be infectious. Most people were pretty generous though and Mr Behr was one of the best. A few times a month he would get in on a later train than usual and he’d give me a big grin, his mouth tinged red from wine, and most times also a tenner rather than just loose change. One of those nights I noticed after he’d walked away that he’d dropped his Oyster card. I picked it up and ran after him. I wasn’t very fast because my knee was still a bit dodgy from the latest run in with Kev. I loped along at a distance and caught up with him just before one of the streets with all the trees and the big houses, Woodland Way. He called me an absolute star and gave me twenty quid, said if I ever needed anything just to let him know. Then he was off, walking briskly up the road. I should have gone back then to my spot. The station would still be busy for ages yet. I was curious though and I followed him. I saw where he went in through a painted gate surrounded by a thick hedge. He stood at his big door patting his pockets and checking his bag. He can’t find his key, I thought. He sighed and then bent down and reached into the back of one of the enormous plant pots standing each side of his door. He fished out a key and went inside. The shiny nameplate on the door flashed as he closed it.
Once I thought I saw him in the park with his family. I was killing time, just looking at the ducks, when this little boy flew by on a shiny scooter. A man I was sure was Mr Behr jogged behind, calling encouragements. After him came a woman, laughing but with a nervous look in her eyes. She had glossy hair and the kind of jacket and boots that you see in the posters for ski holidays. It made me a bit sad. She reminded me of my mum. Not the clothes but just when she scooped the boy up and covered him in kisses. Mum used to do that. Before she got sick.
#
The door to the bedroom is opening and he’s coming in. Mr Behr and Mrs Behr behind him. The little boy is further down the hall but I can see his frightened expression as he peers into his room.
“And they’re still here!”, Mr Behr roars. His teeth are bared and there is spittle on his lips. I’m still sitting on the little low bed trying to get my legs to work to stand up and he looks enormous, standing over me, arms raised. Mrs Behr shrieks.
“What the bloody hell are you….”, he stops dead. “You!” he yells.
For a moment I think it’s all going to be ok. But it isn’t. He grabs me by the arm, I can feel last night’s bruises smarting and as I rise there is a screaming pain in my ribs. He marches me down the stairs past the boy and the woman whose look of fear has now morphed into disgust. I start to try and say something but he’s shouting again, about chairs and chocolates and how dare I. He’s twisting my arm behand my back with one hand and with the other he’s taken out his mobile and I can see he’s dialling 999. We’re in the hallway now and there’s a load of suitcases and bags. His foot catches the strap of one and when his grip loosens, I take my chance and run. I’m out the door and off down Woodland Way before he knows what’s up. I haven’t shoplifted in years, but my legs still remember how to pump when they have to. They also know you don’t have to do it for long if you can find a good place to hide. The back of a pub will do – all those barrels and outhouses and crates – to duck down for a while. Once the adrenalin has gone the pain comes back in my head and my ribs and my arm. I don’t cry often – what’s the point, you just look weak and no-one cares – but I do then. Big sobs of shame and sadness.
Crouching behind a pile of empty cardboard boxes, I think about the night before. What an idiot I’d been to have thought I’d be in any way welcome. I can see now how it must have looked. His wife was obviously terrified and the little boy…I didn’t mean any harm and I certainly hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
#
The cheap vodka from earlier and the whack to the head had made me a bit woozy. Kev had been in a worse rage than I’d ever seen him and for the first time I got properly frightened. I needed to get away and my mind was racing for where to go when I remembered the offer – if I ever needed anything. It was stupid but I thought I might just ring the bell and if nothing else at least Kev wouldn’t do anything while I was stood at the door. The house was in darkness though and no-one answered. I was about to go when I remembered the key. I could slip inside for 10 minutes until Kev had cooled down or passed out.
The hall was cold and dark. No alarm, I realised with surprise. I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. My blonde hair was matted and dirty and there was blood streaking down my face from a cut just above my eye. A bruise was already coming out on my nose which looked a weird shape. Sod you, Kev, I thought angrily. I was hungry and thirsty. The kitchen was a huge shining spaceship of white gloss and chrome at the back of the house looking onto the garden. The fridge was empty and the cupboards had nothing but some lentils with a funny name, those expensive coffee pods and a jar of olives. I looked round and saw three chocolate advent calendars propped up on the counter. I opened a door on the first one and stuffed the chocolate in my mouth. Yuck, dark chocolate. The next one looked better but I got a hard caramel and my jaw was hurting so I spat it out. The last calendar had pictures for kids and was full of little Christmas shapes in milk chocolate. I didn’t even realise that I’d opened all the doors until I couldn’t find another chocolate. Suddenly I felt dizzy and my head was aching so I sat down on a chair. It had one of those weird cushions on it for sore backs so I couldn’t get comfy. The next chair was ok and I was settling in on the cushions when I saw the beanbag. I’d always wanted a beanbag as a kid. I got excited and sat down on it with a thump. My bum hit the floor and the little white beads went skittering all over the kitchen. Shit. I thought I’d better go then and headed back towards the front door. I needed a pee, I realised, and my eye was still dripping. The big wide stairs with their soft cream carpet were right in front of me and I went up to look for a loo. The first room was about the size of the whole flat I grew up in. It had its own bathroom and I sorted myself out a bit. I suddenly felt very tired and I climbed onto the bed. It was covered in little shiny, slippery cushions which jumped about like fish. I couldn’t relax with all that so I got up to look around a bit more. The next room was a sort of study with a desk and a big leather sofa covered with a throw like a polar bear fur. I touched it and it slid off the smooth leather and onto the floor with a soft whump. Startled, I ran out and into the next room. A boy’s by the looks of the rockets and the Lego. Not that girls don’t like these things of course. They do. I did – or did before toys became something that only other people had. The ceiling had those glow in the dark stars and someone had arranged them into proper constellations. It sounds stupid since I sleep outside a lot but right then all I wanted to do was to lie down on the bed and look up at them.
Hilary Coyne 