Even the Dogs: A Novel (11 page)

I feel much much better now, thank you.

Do anything to hold on to that.

Do anything to get back to that. Keep getting back up to get back to that feeling well again. Feeling well, feeling sorted, feeling like all the, the worries have been taken away. The fears. All the emotions taken care of. That feeling of, what is it, just, like, absence, from the world. Like taking your own life away, just for a while. Like what the French call it la, the little death. And then getting up and doing it again, every time. We get up, and we do it all over again.

What else can we do.

And how long must we wait. How long have we waited already. For something to happen. For someone to come. For some fucking thing to change.

Like Laura’s keyworker giving it all Change is something you need to do for yourself, Laura. You can’t wait until someone else does it for you. All those sessions she had with him, going through assessment forms and working out goals and all that. I want to go to rehab, she said, first time she got an appointment with him, but he kept giving it all No but it’s not as simple as that, Laura. It’s not like you can get in a taxi to rehab and then come back in six months’ time all cleaned up. Going on about how it was a process. Going We should start by looking at harm minimisation, we should talk about your immediate needs, we should think about getting you on to a script.

All that stuff on the assessment forms. On a scale of one to ten I feel one very comfortable or ten very uncomfortable with my level of drug use. On a scale of one to ten I feel one very optimistic or ten very pessimistic about my life in the future. All that. Talking about triggers and associations, talking about risk behaviours, talking about histories and plans for the future and trying to make sure she came along to the next appointment. Saying things like Laura, if I can get you to make yourself a cup of tea when you wake up in the morning then we’re halfway there, if we can find some space in your head for things apart from drugs then we’re making progress. Asking about what her interests had been before she’d had a habit.

Waiting for the appointments sometimes she felt like she was just one of his pet projects, like he was only pleased she was getting anywhere because then he could mark her up on his monitoring forms and make a big song and dance about her to the project funders. But sometimes it seemed like he was actually bothered and that was something new. He kept going on about how he knew where she was coming from, he’d been there himself, and if he could get clean and get out then so could she. Giving it all There’s no such thing as a hopeless case now, Laura, I mean you should have seen me. Laughing but she didn’t get the joke. But anyway she mostly kept going to the appointments. He’d said it would be a long wait for a place in rehab and it was something to do in the meantime.

Told Danny all this one time and here he is telling us now.

Doing our time in these waiting rooms. These rooms all the same as each other. A clock on the wall, hard metal chairs, a stack of old magazines, a box of toys in one corner. And always someone losing it and banging their fists against the toughened glass and shouting at the staff who just sit a bit further back and wait for Security.

Benefits office, housing office, doctor’s surgery, probation. Sit there waiting for your number to come up, and you get used to it after a while. It’s dry and it’s warm and that’s a start. That’s something. As good a place to sit as any other and we’ve got the time to spare. Haven’t we just. All the time in the world. Nothing much better to do. Is that right.

Those signs saying Our staff are entitled to work without fear of violence or abuse.

Those signs saying Anyone spitting at a member of staff will be prosecuted.

The clock ticking round and the hard metal chairs.

The clock ticking round and Robert cold on his steel bed behind that door.

Some baby crying again, and some girl begging it to just please be quiet.

And there’s Mike and Danny in the benefits office, waiting to sort out Danny’s giro so they could split it. Mike sitting there telling him all what’s what. Going Them two you met yesterday, Spider and Scots Malky, you’re best off steering well clear, they’re both a bit mental and everyone’s scared of them. Even the busies like. They’re all right so long as you keep your distance although you’ve probably learned your lesson now anyway but all I’m saying is next time we’re there or we see them you want to stand clear la, you know what I’m saying?

Saying all this with his hand over his mouth, learning over to mutter and spit in Danny’s ear, his eyes scanning the room the whole time.

Because of the cameras, Danny boy. Can’t be too careful la. Cameras everywhere and you never know who they’re looking for. They can see what you’re saying if you’re not careful, that’s why you’re best off talking behind your hand, they’ve got lip-readers and special software and that, it’s like all automatic and everything and they’re keeping a record of it all. Trust me Danny boy, I know what I’m talking about, they’re keeping a record of it all. Danny nodding, and saying nothing, and wiping the spit from his ear.

There’s a camera in here, even now, peering down at the sealed doors, while we sit and stand and lie on the cold stone floor and wait for the morning to come. For his comfort and security these images are being recorded.

Mike still talking and spitting into Danny’s ear while they wait for the giro.

They’ll be putting tags on us next la, they’ll be strapping tags with listening devices on them round our ankles and then there’ll be nowhere to hide, you know what I’m saying? Like them chips they put in dogs’ necks, you know, like, what’s her name, Einstein, she’s probably got one without you even knowing, they’ll be using that to track you and no doubt.

And then Danny’s number being called, and Danny up at the little window and talking through the hole in the glass. Name, date of birth, national insurance number. Address, previous address, place of birth. Always the same. Don’t matter who it is, the police or the doctors or the benefits, they’ve all got forms to fill and they all want to know the same thing. And none of them ever happy with you saying I don’t know.

But what does it say on your birth certificate?

I don’t know. I don’t know.

Like they can’t hear you and they keep going on, looking at the computer screen like the answers might just pop up at them. Asking you the same questions all over again: What does it say on your records? Where were you born? What are your parents’ names?

Jesus. You’d think they’d have training about that sort of thing.

Like what the French call it la. The little death.

And then what happens is sometimes there’s not even a room to wait in is there. Sometimes it’s just a long corridor with a line of chairs leading all the way down it, with people in suits like swishing up and down and making out they’re not looking at you or trying to guess what your business is. What your problem is.

Like at the courts. All these different courts spread through the building, and you find your way through the maze by following the trail of grey metal chairs against the walls. Another place where we know how to sit and wait. Don’t we all. Been there enough.

Like Heather. This is a long time ago now. A lifetime ago.

Sitting outside the Family Court or whatever they called it then. Waiting to be called in, a bag of clothes tucked under the chair. Books. Toys. A long row of chairs and no one else waiting. Could have stood up and left and it wouldn’t have made no difference. Could still be waiting there now and it would have been just the same. Sort of feels like she is still waiting there now.

The door behind her opening and closing and a clerk or someone coming out with an armful of papers and her shoes clicking away down the corridor. Ignoring Heather because who was she anyway.

Dressed as smartly as she could but she still looked out of place. She wanted to, most days, it was sort of the point, all the jewellery and the tattoos and the layers of torn-up clothes, but that day she’d known it would have helped if she’d just looked sort of normal and standard and capable. Capable being what they were talking about in there.

The doors opening and closing. The sunlight in the foyer at the end of the dark corridor. Felt like a schoolgirl outside the headteacher’s office, swinging her legs. The metal chair cold against her skin. Her hair sticking to her forehead where she’d tried to wet her fringe down over the tattoo. Because she’d known that wouldn’t help, the tattoo.

Her hair all hot down the back of her neck, and she lifts a handful up away from her head, hoping for a breeze to blow down the corridor and cool her skin. But there’s nothing. No movement, no sound, and so she opens her hand and lets her hair fall and every time she does this again for the rest of her life she’ll be back in this moment, this waiting in the long corridor for a door to open and her name to be called. She’s waiting there now, her hair still falling from her hand against her hot red neck.

I can wait, she says.

Don’t mind me. I’ve got time on my hands.

We’ve all got time on our hands, now.

But if he could have just shouted. If he could have got to a phone. And if Penny could have barked and howled and hurled herself against the door.

And look at him now.

All these gaps. All this waiting. All these things coming back into view.

Like Robert, all the waiting he did. Waiting for Yvonne to get in touch after all, to say Come on, Robert, it’s been a while now, shall we have another go.

Must have known she never would.

But if she found him in that state. If anyone found him in that state. It had been too long. He wasn’t waiting any more. But how old would Laura be now, he kept thinking, then. All those years. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Asking questions all over again and maybe she’d come and find him one day. But if she found him in that state.

Here’s something Steve, he said one morning, the three of them barely awake. This was later, when Heather was stopping there as well. When was this. The noise of H and Penny scrambling around in the hallway. Here’s something Steve, I’ll tell you what. This is important.

Boxes of latex gloves on shelves along the wall.

Disposable aprons.

The tag on the door. A date, a time, a reference number. A space where his name should be.

Too many gaps.

Too many, fucking, known unknowns.

That man who went to the chiropodist with the maggots in his feet, what was his name, where did he go. Is he here now.

The man in the wheelchair who can hardly move it but won’t let no one push, crying out with each turn of the wheels. What’s his name.

Yvonne. Where is she, even now.

Laura.

That man in the wheelchair, we know him but we don’t even know his name. Plenty of stories about him though. Like he’s rich as fuck, for one. Got a big house out on the tops that he inherited years back but he couldn’t never bear to live there. Like he’s going to leave it to some animal charity when he kicks it, some dogs’ home or something. Like he reckons they deserve it the most. Like it’s arthritis that’s crippling him and they could do plenty about it but he won’t let them get him in the hospital. All stories but so who knows what’s really true and he keeps dragging himself all over town.

We sit and we stand and we lean against the wall. We lie on the cold stone floor and we wait for the morning. The clock ticking round towards the windowless dawn.

Spent a lot of time on the cold stone floor of the underpass, waiting. Danny did. Before they bricked up the underpasses and filled them in. Sat on a blanket with another one round his shoulders. Before they banned the charities from giving out blankets, before some council leader started going on about cleaning up the streets and calling it respect, some cunt watching too many films and giving it all like Some kind of rain’s going to come and wash all the crap off the streets but in the meantime a blanket ban and some asbos will have to do. Sat there with Einstein curled up in his lap. Eyes down and cup held out. Very humble, very fucking what is it, penitent. Mike keeping watch at one end of the underpass. Counting and recounting the money, how much they had now and how much more they needed before they could pick up their blankets and hurry on over to the flats to score. Always starting to hurt by the time the last coin hit the cup, and as soon as it landed they were up and moving off, folding the blankets as they went, taking the steps out of the underpass two and three at a time, Mike already up ahead at the phonebox putting in their order, Danny striding past him, Einstein not needing to be told to keep up, the two of them hurrying off down the street like Olympic walkers, or more like Special Olympics walkers the state of them, their loose-soled trainers flapping as they limped along the pavement and Mike explaining where the delivery would be. No point rushing because when they got there they always had to wait. But they couldn’t help it. Always waiting longer than they’d been told, longer than they wanted, longer than they could bear but they had to, while Mike paced around and chatted on his phone. Watching every car that slowed down, every kid on a mountain bike, anyone who caught their eye who might be bringing what they needed. Deliver us what we need would you la. Three or four times a day, standing and waiting. Deliver us from, whatever, this fucking sickness.