Sin City (28 page)

I flop down on my front again, mouth full of carpet fluff, tears running down my neck. I'd like Milt to wake up – have him comfort me, hold me in his arms, tell me that everything's all right. Just to hear another human voice would make me feel less miserably alone. I wonder if he's married. Maybe there's some sad and dumpy woman waiting up at home for him, cold in bed without him. I doubt if
I
'll get married. Nobody would want me, not when I'm so vile. I admitted once to Dr Bates that I'd like to settle down, be secure and wanted, have someone care for me, and he saw it all as neurotic fear and over-compensation. “Don't you understand, Carole, you may be using men to seek the nurturing your mother couldn't give you?” God! He made things complicated with all his analysing. Another time, he warned me that I might start choosing partners who would merely confirm my own low opinion of myself. If I listened to all that psycho-stuff, I'd never dare go out with anyone, let alone get hitched. It must have been much simpler in the old days, when women married almost automatically, without being labelled represssive or regressive.

Slowly, I roll over, ease my aching legs. My cunt's sore, my eyes smart, I'm utterly exhausted. So shut up and go to sleep then. I can't, still can't – can't stop crying and can't stop Abigail. My fingers aren't enough. Too small, too feeble. I want to be entwined with someone, wild with someone, have them bang and bang and bang … Victor, please come back. Hold me, Victor, stroke my hair. I didn't mean to walk out of that poker game. I liked you. I liked you such a lot. I felt safe with you and right with you and … Oh, it's great, it's great, it's terrible. Oh, Victor!

Got to stop. Out of breath. Hurting. Fingers tired, leg muscles seized up. I lie flat out on my back, arms folded across my chest. I can feel my heart pounding through my hands, nipples sticking up like two spare clits. My neck is really painful. I need a cushion, something to rest back on. I reach for Milton's clothes, fold his trousers, shirt and vest to make a pillow, slump back on it, spread my legs again. What's wrong with me, for God's sake? Even now, I don't feel satisfied, or sleepy, or all those things you're meant to feel in sex books. There's a hole between my legs, a deep and endless hole, an ache so bad it feels as if nothing and nobody could ever really fill it. I turn over on my side, curl up very tight so I'm just a child; shut my eyes, hide them with my hands. When I was a real child, I used to think that nobody could see me if I kept my eyes tight closed. “I'm not here, Daddy. You've got to try and find me.” He always played the game, searched my room from top to bottom, crawling under the bed and chest of drawers, hunting through the wardrobe, calling out my name. I'd almost choke lying in my bed, trying not to breathe; wait until he was well and truly frantic before I resurrected, opened my eyes and shouted “Here I am!” He was so surprised, so utterly relieved, so happy that he had me still.

Open your eyes, Daddy, open your eyes.

Stop crying, stupid. What's the point of crying? Your head hurts as it is, and you're soaking Milton's clothes. I grip the bath to help me up. Slowly, very slowly … I feel as if I'm recovering from an illness – light-headed, short of breath, with tissue-paper legs. The mirror adds swollen puffy eyes, red blotches on both cheeks. I splash my face with water, check Milton's store of pills. There's nothing for my symptoms, so I gulp two sleeping pills. At least they'll stop me thinking. I can't sleep naked, though. My bra is somewhere in the bed and I can't even remember where or when I took my pants off. I slip on Milton's limp white vest instead. It feels clammy, damp with tears, but at least it makes me decent. I limp back to the bedroom, clamber in once more, still face to wall, like Milt. He's muttering in his sleep, must be dreaming. A dream about a girl he found, an Ugly Sister – sad as well as ugly – who woke up in the morning transformed as a princess. A real princess with golden hair (not True Blonde), beautiful and chaste, who never drank or smoked or craved sordid things like money (and was just a little icy like the Snow Queen, so she wouldn't go too far), and was happy, truly happy, so she never cried or hurt her eyes again, and …

I'm feeling slightly better now, quieter, even sleepy. Those pills must be fast-acting ones. I dare to edge an inch or two towards Milton's blue-striped back, close my eyes, hear my breathing deepen.

… and who fell in love (true and lasting love) with a pea-green frog who changed into a Prince when he woke her in the morning with a …

I smile, let myself sink down.

… with a kiss.

“Want to fly?” The woman at the desk is smiling at me, handing me a form.

I nod. I can't speak at all, not even “yes”. I'm too excited. I'm going to fly, really fly. Not just in a plane, but on my own. You
can
fly now. It says so on the poster, “MAN CAN FLY LIKE A BIRD.” It's written in capital letters so it must be true. Important things are always put in capitals.

There are pictures round the walls – people flying – men with wings and helmets; women, too, and children, soaring through the air. There's a poem pasted up, a long one with long words. It took me hours to read it.

I turn back to the notice board, spell out the last verse again. I can't follow quite a lot of it, but it's so beautiful, it makes me want to cry.

Up, up, the long delirious burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew.
And while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

“The face of God.” Maybe I can touch it. Even if I don't, just to be that close …

The woman's calling out. She wants my money. It costs fifteen dollars, which isn't all that much for the chance of touching God. The plane cost more than that, much more. Victor gave me money in my chocolate box. I like Victor. Carole's with him now, I think. She lost him for a while and I had to help her find him.

We found another man, a Poet called John Milton who took us to a restaurant. I didn't like the restaurant. Someone had stolen all the knives and forks. It's rude to eat with fingers and everyone was punished for it. We had to get up and dance round and round the room while they played this loud and painful music. If you stopped, or went too slowly, or tried to find your seat again, they dragged you back and the music played still faster.

I hurt my leg, so I was allowed to leave before the others could. Carole ordered me a taxi, came right out to the street to say goodbye; told me not to worry if she was late.

She's not just late, she hasn't come back at all. I'm not sure what the time is, but it's been morning for some while. It may be even twelve o' clock and dinner time. I did worry, quite a lot, even went out looking for her. She didn't like the Poet much. I could tell that by her face. Vic's the one she really likes; the one who makes her happy. I think she must have found him in the end; got her miracle. That's why she's still out.

I got my miracle as well. When I went to look for Carole, I found this place instead, saw the notice tacked outside the building. “Soar like an eagle, float like a butterfly.” I shall, in just a moment. I'd rather fly than have my dinner. I'd rather fly than do anything at all.

I go back to the desk. I've lost my place in the queue now. There are a lot of people lining up, mostly little boys. I hope I'm not too old to fly. It says “safe for all ages” on the poster, but I ask the lady, just in case.

“It's nothing to do with age, honey. Just yesterday we had a great-grandmother of ninety-one come in, and the day before, a fifteen-months-old baby. They had a ball, both of them. If you want to fly, you fly. So long as you're fit, that is.”

I nod. I'm hardly ever ill. And of course I want to fly. I've been waiting all my life for it. I just wish I was smaller. There are two grown-ups in the queue now, but they both look small and thin.

“I'm … not too heavy, am I?”

The lady really laughs. “Heavy? You should see some of the tubs who walk in here. We had a prize-fighter the other day who weighed three hundred and eighty pounds and he floated like a feather.”

A feather! I can see whole wings. Angels' wings. The lady's counted out my money and is handing me a form, which she says I have to sign. There's too much print, small and hard to read, with some things underlined. I don't like the beginning. The words are very difficult and lots I've never heard of. I start again, halfway down. The word “INJURY” appears a lot of times in big black capitals, so I don't read that bit either.

The bottom is the best part. There are just blank spaces where you write your name, address, and driving licence number. I print “N. TOOMEY, GOLD RUSH”. I don't know the address and I haven't got a driving licence, but the lady says it doesn't matter and would I sign there and there and …

My arm is getting tired and I'm so excited the letters look like squiggles. The lady gives me a slip of paper, waves me up the stairs. I climb them shakily, until I reach a door marked “FLIERS”, at the top.

Fliers. That's me. That's Norah Toomey. An eagle and a butterfly. An angel. I push the door, walk in.

It's just an ordinary room. I can't believe it. I thought I'd see a great hall full of sky, with the rushing noise of wings. The only noise is giggling boys and a man on the radio telling me to drive a Ford. There's nothing much to see at all, except rows of metal lockers like we had at Westham Hall and a padded bench to sit on. The girl behind the desk hands me out a locker key and tells me to take my coat off and the jacket of my suit, and also my shoes and any jewellery. I haven't any jewellery, except my silver shamrock which I never ever wear because if I lost it I'd lose the last trace of my mother.

I don't like to take my jacket off with young boys in the room, so I just remove my coat and shoes and put them in the locker. I have to wear a flight-suit which is a bright shiny red with a zip right up the middle. I like clothes which come in halves – top and bottom, skirt and jumper, pyjama legs and jacket. This is just one-piece and not easy to put on. It's too short in the body and too long in the legs and my skirt gets in the way and then the zip sticks.

The boys are getting ready too, chattering and joking with each other. No one talks to me, though one lad points and laughs. I wish we had curtains like we do in Florence Ward. They could only see my feet then.

I sit down to put my shoes on, though it's hard to bend with the suit zipped up, and my feet seem a long way from my hands. The shoes are white, the sort of shoes which people wear on tennis courts, except they don't have laces. I'm not sure how you do them up. They're too small anyway. The girl asked what size I wore and I whispered “eights”, very very softly, because I'm ashamed to have big feet. I don't think she heard me right because they're pinching at the sides and there's no room for my toes.

I hobble to the mirror at the far end of the room. I don't look like an eagle. Or an angel. I'd rather fly without the suit at all. I don't know why we need suits. Or white shoes. Birds don't wear white shoes.

I hope we start soon. I think it must be one by now, or even quarter past. No one's moved at all. I slip behind the last locker in the row so that nobody can laugh. I look very large and red and bulky as if someone's blown me up.

I stand there quite a while. Then a tall man in a tracksuit opens a door I haven't seen and says “Right, fliers, come this way.”

Fliers. Every time I hear that word, my stomach jumps a bit, as if I've got the pains still, but happy pains this time. “Fliers, fliers …” I say it once or twice. Nobody can hear me. I'm saying it inside.

We follow the man into another smaller room, which is very dark and stuffy and has all the curtains drawn as if it's night-time. We couldn't fly in there. It's far too small and poky. He tells us to sit down, then switches on the television. There must be some mistake. I don't want to watch TV. I've been watching it all morning.

“Excuse me, Sir, I want to fly.”

“You'll fly, Ma'am. When you're ready. We have to brief you first, instruct you what to do. We've made this special pre-flight video which shows you how to fly, and – more important – how not to fly. Right, just watch the screen and I'll be back in twenty minutes.”

He shuts the door, leaves me in the dark with all the boys. There's a sudden noise from the television screen and I see a big fat figure in a scarlet suit like mine falling on his face. This must be the wrong film. Nobody is flying, only falling. A girl in a blue suit crashes down, followed by a little boy who bounces as he falls. There isn't any sky or space at all, just a sort of cage. Perhaps they couldn't take pictures in the sky – it's probably far too high or the sun would burn the camera.

A voice is speaking very loud. I think it's speaking English, but it's not the same as ours. It's hard to understand it, but I try and concentrate. Flying isn't easy. There are lots of things you mustn't do, but I don't think I'll remember them because they're rushing by so fast. Everybody's falling still.

The boys are laughing, pointing at the screen. I expect they'll laugh at me. I can't follow it at all. I wonder how birds learn.

The voice becomes a head and smile, then the head gets smaller to make room for the body on the screen. The body has bare legs. It isn't wearing a flight-suit, just a pair of shorts. Men's shorts. He must be very cold. He asks us to stand up and check our own suits. He says they should be comfortable and not pulling anywhere. Mine is pulling under the arms
and
between the legs. I try to tell him, but he's saying something else now – how dangerous it is to leave anything in our pockets or to wear a ring or bracelet which might fly off and injure someone. I begin to feel quite frightened. I check both my wrists and all my fingers. I never wear rings or bracelets, but I'd hate to injure someone.