Land of the Living (13 page)

Five

I hadn’t made an appointment, and they told me that I would have to wait for at least fifty minutes before they could do it, but I didn’t mind that. I didn’t have anywhere else to be, and it was warm in here. And safe. I sat in an easy chair near the door and leafed through last year’s glossy magazines. Penny, the woman who was going to cut my hair, told me to pick out styles that I thought I might like, so I examined film stars and musicians and grinning celebrities and tried to imagine my face under their hair. The trouble was, I’d still look like me.

It was just beginning to get dark. Outside the window, people trudged by, wrapped in coats and scarves, wincing in the cold. Cars and lorries thundered past, throwing up muddy slush. Inside, it was bright and still and quiet, just the sound of scissors snipping through hair, the swoosh of the broom on the floor, gathering locks up into soft piles, an occasional murmur of conversation. There were six people already having their hair cut, all women. They sat up straight in their chairs, black robes draped around them, or lay back against the sink, having shampoo and conditioner massaged into their scalps. I could smell coconut, apple, camomile. I closed my eyes. I could sit here all day.

‘Have you decided?’

‘Short,’ I said, snapping open my eyes. She led me to a seat in front of a large mirror and stood behind me, running her hands through my hair, her head to one side speculatively.

‘You’re sure about that, are you?’

‘Yes. Really short. Not a bob or anything. You know, cropped. Short, but not too brutal.’

‘Choppy, perhaps, mussed up. A bit soft round here, maybe?’

‘Yes. That sounds fine. I’m having a different colour put in first, as well.’

‘That’ll take a good hour more.’

‘That’s all right. What colour do you think I should have?’

‘You’ve got pretty hair as it is.’

‘I want a change. I was thinking about red. Bright red.’

‘Red?’ She lifted my long pale hair and let it fall through her fingers. ‘Do you think red would suit your colouring? What about something softer — a kind of dark caramel colour maybe, with interesting highlights?’

‘Would it look very different?’

‘Oh, definitely.’

I’ve never had really short hair. When I was a girl I refused to have it cut at all. I wanted to be like my friend Chen, who could sit on her blue-black hair. She used to wear it in a single plait, fastened at the bottom with a velvet bow. It snaked down her back, thick and gleaming, as if it were alive. I put up a hand and stroked the top of my head, took a last look.

‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘Let’s go, before I change my mind.’

‘I’ll be back after the colour’s in.’

Another woman dyed my hair. First, she applied a thick, brownish paste that smelt unpleasantly chemical. I sat under a lamp and baked. Then she put some lighter dollops on to slabs of hair and wrapped them with bits of tin-foil. I looked as if I was about to be trussed and put into the oven. I closed my eyes once more. I didn’t want to see.

Fingers combed through my hair, warm water ran over my scalp. Now I smelt of fruit, of humid tropical forests. A towel was wrapped round my head like a turban. Someone put a cup of coffee down in front of me. Outside, more snow started to fall.

I closed my eyes when Penny began cutting. I heard the scissors crunch and a piece of hair slid down my cheek. The back of my neck felt strangely exposed, my ear-lobes too. Penny sprayed more water on to my head; she cut steadily, not talking except to tell me to sit this way or that; she leant forward and blew away prickles of hair. I opened my eyes and saw in front of me a small, pale, naked face. My nose and mouth looked too big, my neck looked too thin. I closed my eyes again and tried to think about other things. Food, for instance. After this I’d go and buy a pastry from the deli I’d spotted down the road, something sweet and spicy. Cinnamon and pear, maybe. Or a slice of carrot cake. Perhaps an apple, big and green and tart.

‘What do you think?’

I forced myself to look. There were smudges under my eyes and my lips were pale and dry. I put up a hand and touched the soft bristle on top of my head. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Great.’

Penny angled the mirror behind me. From the back, I looked like a young boy.

‘What do you think?’ I said.

She looked at me appraisingly. ‘Very edgy,’ she said.

‘Just what I wanted.’

A brush was flicked round my neck and over my face, the mirror was tipped so I caught every variation of my new profile, I was handed my jacket and posted into the outside world, where tiny flakes of snow whirled through the gathering darkness. My head felt weirdly light. I kept seeing myself in shop windows and being startled. I bought a giant chocolate-chip cookie and ate it while I made for the shops.

For the past three years, I’ve dressed pretty smartly. It was part of the job and I guess I got used to it. Suits. Skirts and jackets and sheer tights, with an extra pair in my bag in case they got snagged. Things that were tailored and trim. So now I used up the rest of the money that Sheila had lent me, and then rather a lot more, on a pair of baggy black trousers, several T-shirts, some leather biker boots, a hooded, fleecy sweatshirt, black as well, a long stripy scarf and a black woollen hat, some warm gloves. I nearly bought a long leather coat, except I didn’t have enough money left, which was probably fortunate. But I did have enough money for six pairs of knickers, two bras, several pairs of thick socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and some lipstick, mascara, deodorant and shampoo.

I stood in front of the long shop mirror. I turned round slowly, looking at myself over my shoulder. I lifted my chin. I was no longer Abbie the businesswoman, hair drawn up in a sleek bun and sensible shoes. I looked thin and almost feral, with sharp collar-bones. The new black clothes made my face seem paler than ever, though the bruise on my cheek had faded to a jaundiced yellow stain. My hair was spiky and the colour of birchwood. I thought I looked a bit like an owl. And about sixteen, a schoolgirl. I smiled at myself, the newness I saw there, and nodded.

‘Good,’ I said, aloud. ‘Perfect.’

Six

‘Christ!’ said Sheila, as she opened the door.

‘What do you reckon?’

‘It’s certainly a change of image. I hardly recognized you.’

‘That’s the general idea. Can I come in, then? I’m freezing out here!’ Icy flakes were landing on my cheeks and nose, trickling down my neck. My new haircut was flat and wet.

She stood back and let me into the warmth. ‘Sure. God, you look…’

‘What?’

‘I dunno. Younger.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Yes,’ she said dubiously. ‘You look littler, too, somehow. Tea? Drink?’

‘Drink. I bought us some beer.’

‘Thanks, but you shouldn’t have bothered.’

‘Don’t thank me. It was your money. I’ll be able to pay you back soon, though, when my credit card is sent to Terry’s, which should be any day.’

‘Whenever. That reminds me, Terry rang.’

‘Here?’

‘No, Sadie’s. He thought you’d be there. So Sadie rang me to say that Terry says can you go and collect this big bag he forgot to give you yesterday, with all your mail and stuff. And the rest of your clothes.’

‘Fine. I’ll go tomorrow.’

‘Or he’ll throw it away.’

‘Charming. I’ll go now.’

‘Now? Don’t you want something to eat? We’re having these friends round. A couple, very nice, he works with Guy and she does something with antiques, I think. Nothing smart, just the four of us. Or five, that is,’ she said bravely.

‘It’s OK, Sheila. Four’s a better number. Maybe I’ll be back for the cheese course.’

‘No cheese. Lemon tart.’

‘You made lemon tart?’

‘Yes.’ She looked self-conscious and virtuous at the same time.

‘Save some for me. Can I use your phone to book a cab?’

‘Of course. You don’t have to ask.’

I kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You’re being very nice to me. I promise I won’t stay here for long.’

It costs a lot of money to go across London in a taxi, make it wait, then come all the way back again. I watched the meter nervously as it clicked into double figures. I’d had £257 this morning, from Sheila and Guy and from the bank, but after my haircut and shopping spree and various coffees and cabs, it was down to seventy-nine. By the end of the evening I’d have about sixty again.

The lights were on in our flat. Terry’s flat, that is. I rang the bell and waited, then heard footsteps running down the stairs and a light went on in the hall.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Terry.’

‘Abbie?’ He peered at me. ‘What have you gone and done to yourself? Your hair, it’s –’

‘Gone. I know. Can I come in and collect my stuff ? I’m in a bit of a hurry. A cab’s waiting.’

‘I’ll go and get it. I’ve put everything in bags. Wait here.’ He turned and dashed back up the stairs again. But I wasn’t going to wait in the freezing cold, so I followed him and we arrived simultaneously. There was a lovely smell coming from the flat, garlicky and pungent. On the table was a bottle of wine, but only half drunk, two glasses, two plates of chicken covered with sprigs of rosemary and whole garlic cloves. That was my recipe, my standby. Candles — that I’d bought. A woman was sitting there, twiddling her glass, her long fair hair falling forward and shining in the soft light. She was wearing a charcoal-grey suit and had tiny gold studs in her ears. I stood there in the doorway, in my baggy trousers, with my tufty hair, and stared at her.

‘I’ll get all your stuff,’ said Terry.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

He muttered something and disappeared.

‘I’m Abbie,’ I said brightly to the woman.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she said faintly. ‘Sally.’

‘Here.’ Terry dragged in two bin-bags with my remaining clothes, then put a bulging plastic bag of mail into my hands. He was red-faced.

‘Must go,’ I said. Then I turned to the woman. ‘Do you know what’s odd? You look rather like me.’

She smiled, polite but incredulous. ‘I really don’t think so.’

They were still on the fish when I backed into the kitchen, dragging my bags after me.

‘Abbie, back already! This is Paul and Izzie. Are you going to join us?’

‘Hi.’ I could tell by the way Paul and Izzie looked at me that they’d heard the full story. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not really hungry. I’m going to go through my post.’ I lifted up the splitting plastic bag. ‘Get some clues, eh?’ They all laughed nervously and glanced at each other. Sheila flushed, and leant forward to refill their glasses.

‘I’d love some wine, though.’

Most of the post was junk, January sales catalogues, stuff like that. There were two postcards: one from Mary, who was in Australia for the whole of the month; one from Alex in Spain. He must be back by now. I wondered if he’d heard. There were two invitations to parties. One had been and gone, but one was this weekend. Maybe I’d go to that, dance and flirt, I thought, and then, But what shall I wear? And what shall I say? And who on earth would flirt with someone who looked like a vagrant schoolgirl? Perhaps I wouldn’t go, after all.

There was a strange, formal letter from Laurence Joiner at Jay and Joiner’s, confirming that I was on unpaid leave, but that my pension and National Insurance would still be paid. I frowned and put it to one side. Clearly I needed to go into the office sometime. Maybe tomorrow.

Then there was a bank statement. At the beginning of the month I had been a glorious and uncharacteristic £1810.49 in credit but now I had only £597 left. I squinted at the row of figures. What on earth had I spent £890 on, on 13 January? Fuck, those must be the clothes that Robin had told me about. What on earth had possessed me? I must have been drunk or something. And I didn’t even have the clothes to show for it. Then, three days later, I’d withdrawn five hundred pounds in cash, which was very odd. I usually take out about fifty.

I drank some wine and opened an official-looking letter, which informed me that the tax disc on my car was due to run out. This didn’t concern me too much because I didn’t have a clue where my car was — except I suddenly did, because I opened the next envelope and discovered that it was being held in a police pound in Bow.

‘Yes!’ I said aloud. ‘At last!’

I looked more closely at the letter. Apparently it had been towed away from an illegal parking place on Tilbury Road, EI, wherever Tilbury Road was. Wherever bloody EI was. I could collect it between nine and five. I’d go tomorrow, first thing.

I raced to the kitchen. ‘I’ve found my car!’ I said to them.

‘Good,’ said Guy, a little startled. ‘Great. Where is it?’

‘In a police pound in Bow apparently. I’ll get it tomorrow morning. Then I won’t need all those cabs.’ I picked up the bottle of wine and poured myself another large glassful.

‘How?’ asked Guy.

‘What do you mean, how?’

‘How will you get it? You don’t have the key.’

‘Oh.’ I felt winded by disappointment. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What shall I do?’

‘You could get a locksmith out,’ suggested Izzie kindly.

‘No, I know. There’s a spare key at Terry’s, somewhere, God knows where, though. In a safe place I’ve forgotten. I’ll have to go back again. Shit. I thought tonight was the end of it.’

‘At least you’ll have your car again. That’s something.’

‘It’s a start.’

I was falling, falling from a great height. Nothing could stop me and there was silent black air all around me and I was plunging through it. I heard myself call out, a wild cry in the night. I heard it echo.

Then I woke with a violent lurch and lay as if winded on the pillow. The pillow was damp from sweat. I felt sweat trickle down my cheeks and neck like tears. I opened my eyes but it was still dark. Quite dark. There was a heaviness over my heart, as if a great weight had been dropped on to me. I was trapped in the darkness, I heard myself breathing, but the sound was hoarse, like a rusty gasp. Something was wrong. I couldn’t catch my breath properly; it was stuck in my chest and my throat kept closing against it in spasms. I had to remember how to do it. I had to remember how to breathe. I had to count, yes, that was it. Breathe in and then out. Slowly. One-two, one-two. Pulling air into my lungs, holding it for a second, letting it out again.

Who was there? Someone was nearby. A board creaked. I wanted to sit up but my body wouldn’t move, and I wanted to call out but my voice was frozen inside me. Another board creaked. There was breathing. I could hear it, just outside the door. I lay flattened against my pillow. I could feel my mouth pulled back in a scream, but still no sound came, and there was the breathing again, footsteps, a quiet, stifled cough.

‘No,’ I said at last. ‘No.’ I spoke louder. ‘No, no, no, no.’ The words filled up my head. They ricocheted around the room, crashed around my skull, tore at my throat. ‘No, no, no, no.’

The door opened and in the slab of light I could see a black shape.

‘No!’ I screamed again, even louder. There was a hand on my shoulder, fingers on my hair. I thrashed on the bed. ‘No, no, no, no. Oh, please, no!’

‘Abbie. Abbie, wake up. It’s all right. You’re having a dream. It’s just a dream.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’

‘Abbie.’

‘God, God, God,’ I whimpered.

‘You were having a nightmare.’

I took hold of Sheila’s hand and pressed it against my forehead.

‘You’re soaked through! You must have a fever.’

‘Sheila. Oh, Sheila. I thought…’

‘You were having a nightmare.’

I sat up. ‘It was terrible,’ I said.

‘You poor thing. Listen, I’m going to get you a towel to put over your pillow. You’ll be all right now.’

‘Yes. Sorry. I woke you.’

‘You didn’t. I was going to the bathroom anyway. Hang on.’

She went away and returned a few moments later with a large towel. ‘All right now?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Call if you need me.’

‘Thanks. And, Sheila — leave the door open, will you? And the light in the corridor on?’

‘It’s very bright.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Good night, then.’

‘Night.’

She left and I lay back in bed. My heart was still pounding like a drum. My throat hurt from screaming. I felt weak and shaky and clammily sick. The light flooded in through the door. I lay and watched it and waited for it to be morning.

‘Where would I have hidden it?’

‘No idea,’ said Terry. He was still in his dressing-gown, the one I’d given him for his last birthday, drinking thick black coffee and smoking cigarette after cigarette. A blue fug clouded the room, which smelt of ash and the garlic from last night. There was no sign of the other woman, though.

‘I mean, it’s not in any of the little cabinet drawers. It’s not in the wooden bowl that every bit of crap ends up in. It’s not in the bathroom.’

‘Why would it be in the bathroom?’

‘It wouldn’t be. That’s what I said, it’s not.’

‘Oh.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Well, I’ve got to get dressed and go. I’m running late as it is. Will you be long?’

‘As long as it takes to find the key. Don’t worry, I can let myself out.’

‘Well, not really.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You don’t live here any more, Abbie. You walked out on me, remember? You can’t just come and go like this.’

I stopped rummaging and stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’

‘I’ll get dressed while you look,’ he said. ‘But, yes, I am.’

I opened all the drawers in the kitchen and living room and banged them shut again, opened cupboards and slammed them closed. Not with the cutlery; not with the bills; not with the tins of food, the bags of flour and rice, the cereal packets, the packets of coffee and tea, the bottles of oil, vinegar, soy sauce. Not on one of the mug hooks. Not on the lintel of the door between the two rooms. Not on the bookshelves, or with the stationery, or in the glass bowl where I put — used to put — things like rubber bands, paper clips, spare buttons and hairbands, stamps, tampons.

Terry came back into the room. He put his hands into his coat pockets and jangled change impatiently.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘you don’t want me here and I don’t want to be here. Go to work and when you come back I’ll have gone. I won’t steal anything. I won’t remove the things that are mine. You can have them. I might as well start over with a completely blank slate. I won’t scribble obscenities on the bathroom mirror with my lipstick. I’ll find the key and I’ll leave. OK?’

He jangled the coins some more. ‘Is this really the way it’s going to end?’ he asked eventually, which took me by surprise.

‘The woman who was here last night seemed nice,’ I said. ‘What was her name? Sarah?’

‘Sally,’ he said, giving up. ‘OK. I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Thanks. ’Bye, then.’

‘’ Bye Abbie.’ He hovered by the door for a few seconds, then was gone.

I made myself a last cup of coffee. I took the mug and wandered round the flat. Part of me was wondering if the key would be hidden inside this cup, that cubby-hole. Part of me was just looking, remembering. I found the key under the pot of basil. The earth was all dried out and the leaves had wilted. I watered it carefully. I washed up my mug, dried it, put it back on the hook and left.

Bow was a long way. By the time I arrived I had forty-eight pounds left and a few coppers. I asked in a post office for directions to the car pound. It turned out to be a mile away from the nearest Underground station. You’d have thought that if they towed away your car, they’d at least put it somewhere near public transport. I would have taken a taxi if I’d seen one, but I didn’t. There were just lots and lots of cars and vans spraying water up from the wide puddles in the road.

So I walked, past the garages selling BMWs, the factories making lights and catering equipment and carpets; past the building sites where cranes topped with snow stood motionless. I saw the pound as I came over the hill; row upon row of cars surrounded by a high fence, with double-locked gates. Most of them were old and dented. Perhaps their owners had simply abandoned them. I couldn’t see my car, which was also old and dented, anywhere.

I took my letter to the office in the corner and a man rummaged around in the filing cabinet, came out with a piece of printed paper, scratched his head and sighed heavily.