Part 25 (2/2)

I got another can of Diet Pepsi, then sat in the lounge for a while, back before the window. I watched the rain again. It was quite soothing. A mental ma.s.sage. I started picking out raindrop patterns against the gla.s.s. It obviously hadn't been cleaned on the outside for a while, and the dirt encouraged the rain into various shapes: a map of America, a strutting peac.o.c.k, an old woman's fleshy face.

The old woman's fleshy face smiled suddenly and then a fist banged on the window.

I shot backwards, toppling off the arm of the settee. *Jesus Christ!' I shouted, but it was more like the Wicked Witch of the North West.

I lay on the floor, heart pounding. The face moved away. After a few moments there was a rapid knocking on the front door.

I took several deep breaths and cautiously raised myself. I was getting on in years now and my diet didn't allow me too many sudden shocks.

I steadied myself against the living-room door. Patricia's head appeared at the end of the hall. *Who is it?' she whispered.

*I don't b.l.o.o.d.y know yet,' I snapped.

*Sorry,' she snapped herself and ducked back into the room.

I opened the door.

The old fleshy face blinked at me in the light. Then the body it topped shook itself like a Labrador and while I was distracted by the spray she stepped into the hall.

*Come in,' I said.

*Sorry, love, did I give you a fright?' the woman said, her voice cigarette-craggy. *I thought I'd take a wee look and see if anyone was up before I knocked. It's late on.'

*It is. And, no, you didn't.'

She nodded. *I wanted a wee word.'

*Have several,' I said, *it looks like murder out there.'

Behind me, down the hall, Patricia's face poked out again. *What does she want?'

*I don't know!' I turned back to her. *What do you . . .'

But she'd taken advantage of the distraction to walk past me into the lounge. She was sitting on the edge of the settee, a damp stain of rain already spreading out behind her.

*Have a seat,' I said.

She wore a purple anorak that fell as far as her knees. Her face bulged red out of its hood. Raindrops ran to and fro in the gullies between the wrinkles on her forehead like irrigation. Her wellington boots were caked in mud. Her hands were pudgy. There was something familiar about her face.

The woman leant forward. *You're the one saved the wee girl.'

*Christine?'

*Aye.'

*I suppose so. What of it?'

*I want you to do the same. I want you to save another wee girl.'

*I'm really not sure what . . .'

*You did it once,' she snapped suddenly, her top lip curling up unpleasantly, *do it again.'

There was no need for the nastiness. If I'd been drinking I might have picked her up by the ears and thrown her into the garden. And kicked her while she was down for good measure. I have never believed that old age is an excuse for bad manners. Or for anything besides incontinence. But I hadn't been drinking, so I counted to ten and said as placidly as I could: *You'd better tell me what you're on about, Missis, because I haven't a notion.'

This time her bottom lip curled down in distaste. She had a remarkably mobile mouth. *Are you not listening to me?' she hissed.

*Yes. I'm listening.'

*You saved that wee girl.'

*Yes. We've established that.'

*Now I want you to save mine.'

*And what's her problem?'

*They want to kill her.'

*Who do?'

*They do. The Council.'

*And why would they want to do that?'

*Because of what she did. On her bike.'

Ah.

The penny dropped. Mary Reilly. Mary Reilly's mother.

*They're going to do something awful to her. I know it. She doesn't mean any harm, she's just not well . . . will you help her?'

*They're not going to do anything . . . awful . . . I think . . . they think she needs some help or something. I mean, she's hardly the full . . .' I glanced back down the hall for some sign of Patricia. She was good at talking to old people, I'd seen her in action. I just felt like hitting them with a mallet. I'd no patience. Never had. *But don't worry,' I said, *she'll be fine.'

*You don't understand! They're going to kill her! They always get their way!' She jumped up with a sprightliness that belied her advanced years. *I just want your help!' she cried. *Will you help me? They're going to kill my little girl!'

Notwithstanding the fact that her little girl could never in all the world have been described as little, there was no mistaking the raw emotion in her voice. Tears appeared at her eyes and began to dribble down her face, mixing easily with the raindrops.

*I'll make you a cup of tea,' Patricia said from the doorway.

She calmed down a little. I stood in the kitchen with my arms folded while Patricia soothed her. She was very good at it. Trish came in for a refill, said, *Poor woman,' and went back in again. You can only stare at cupboards for so long, so I moved to the doorway and watched them talk. I was hardly listening.

Her face reminded me of someone, and it took me a while to work it out. Her daughter, of course, but also someone else. Then it came to me: Marilyn Monroe.

Years ago I'd seen a picture in a cheap biography, an illicit shot of her in the morgue, laid out on a marble slab, her hair dank, face sagged, not a s.e.x symbol at all, and it had haunted me. And that was how this woman looked in her anorak, as if, once, one solitary, wonderful day, many years before, she had looked ravis.h.i.+ng, had spent her whole life building to that day, but when it had come nothing much had happened. She'd stayed in, listened to the radio, done her hair, gazed at herself in the mirror, imagining a life off the island and had gone to bed promising herself a change, but next morning she was older, she'd pa.s.sed her peak, her twenty-year struggle to beauty had yielded one uneventful night at the summit and now it was all downhill.

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