Slow Poison - Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

 Cheltenham. January 6th

...dead more dead more dead than dead.

Trim snapped the diary shut, the sound hard in the first stirrings of morning. Beyond the curtains the sky glowered black and heavy. Out in the streets the first commuters sped to work with all the enthusiasm of reluctant lemmings. Trim looked up at his blue. He moved his eyes with effort, his body pinioned to the silk like a Gulliver. His nerves were high-tension wires. He could feel his atoms shifting as the anaesthetic dissolved into his memory. He would stay in the security of the bed until the streets were quiet, noisy in another way. He would stay in the warmth until his other needs took over.

At eleven, Trim locked the Mews cottage door. There was a bright frame of traffic and acrilan. Mums and kids, stopping and stooping, smacks and snivel, preoccupied pockets and purses. There were tugging hands and twisting wheels, short tempers and ‘Mum I want Mum I want Mum I want.’ He knew the type. Look at them go. Banged up and in the club. Stupid bags. Up against the disco wall. A shot in the murky alley and down into the bottomless pit. The spiked trap. Levi’s down, mini up, one, two, three. Uh,uh,uh,uh. Catch your man. Stupid skinhead with his brain between his legs. He’s all yours now. Out of the fifth form and onto the Council House waiting list. White weddings and roles to play. Bills to pay. Scores to settle. From here until that dying day. The second kid well on the way when the desperate horizons come your way, offering glimpses of the view from the far hills of twenty. That was the time. Trap them young with Rimmel and Boots No. 5. There they go, clogging up the Prom; all the Snake Island Girls.

In the Gents’ at Cavendish House, he examined his haul. Tuesday morning and their purses swelled with housekeeping leftovers. Big change. Not much really, but all that they could squeeze out of their beer swilling bastard men. Sliding on the heat, pummelling the pillows, French kissing the glass paper faces. He tossed the dog-eared photos and other useless bits into the toilet bowl,  flushing away a hundred memories. He slipped the small change into the hip pockets of his camel coat. Heavy. English money was so heavy. Credit cards were so much lighter and so much more lucrative. With well-chosen targets he could clear an account in an afternoon, long before the card was even missed. He made plans to slip into one of the executive’s haunts for lunch. He scooped up the rainbow of purses into a Sainsbury’s bag and folded the thin wad of notes into his own wallet. He looked around the cubical for anything he might have missed. Written on the doorjamb, in tiny spidery letters, were several bleached messages from the past, phone numbers long since disconnected. He knew.   

Someone rattled the door handle, speeding his pulse. The sound of the flush covered his sudden nervous breathing. He waited briefly for the jackboot to splinter the door, for the low punch to come, then nothing; just the sound of the adjacent door opening and closing, shufflings and zips and trickles. He buttoned his coat and left the cubical. As he splashed cold water on to his face, the red bloom of his skin paled to its normal winter tan.

He thought back to the house in Amsterdam. It had been just as the old man had described. He had first approached it with morning mist rising from the River Ij. The ferry had skimmed the water, gliding past the pale rising sun. The morning was colder on the North bank. As the lip of the ferry eased down to allow the bicycles and pedestrians ashore, he looked for control. There was no control. No uniforms to search out the hidden hams, the billycan of milk swinging under herringbone tweed.

The house was easy to find in the street along the wide canal, with its locks and cottages. Between each cottage a fisherman’s bar, except that the bars were long gone, unfilled cavities in between green wood-walled houses. The house, his house, was the tallest in the street, the balconies, back and front allowed such revealing views. River traffic, distant trains pouring from the mouth of Centraal Station, lorries that rocked the foundations, bulldozers bringing swift change.

The street was still cobbled, accentuating the limp. Trim looked behind him as the rising sun hit the coppery windows of the Shell laboratory. The street was empty, the clatter of cyclists long past. The street would be quiet for five more minutes, until the next ferry would arrive, ebbing and flowing with its cargo of dour souls.

The house stood alone, its balconies removed, as though no one deserved the view. From those balconies the entire sky could be seen. Sun might pour through the rear windows, but the billowing storm clouds could not hide behind the masts in the harbour. When the sparrows gathered to escape the frosty air, they could be seen black against the evening sky, whirling level with the balcony, the apartment doors wide open, watching the world. And always the cyclists, cluster upon cluster rattling below, then and now. There had been no escape from the view, no bolthole, no secret chute to freedom. There was one door in, one door out.

Trim wondered why he was standing there, staring at the blistered paint on the door, at the end of a pilgrimage of sorts. The old man had repeated the stories in his broken English, had set down the words in his frail hand. The door had been quietly opened by the woman downstairs, signalling the strangers on and up. She would have heard the footsteps overhead. Would have heard the muffled shouts, would have heard the bodies hit the floor, the mirror shattering on to the piano keys, the scuffle on the stairs, the slam of the doors, the street door and the truck door, would have heard the bolts slide home as she sipped her Black Market ersatz coffee. Damn her.

Trim pounded his fist on the washbasin surround. A cubical door opened and someone stood beside him, washing hands, whistling cheerfully.

“Not quite as cold today, is it? Reckon we’ll be seeing some snow. The sky is full of it.”

Trim stood shakily near the Hallmark rack, among the stationery, searching for an exit. He felt claustrophobic, needed leaded air to refresh his lungs. Needed the street.

“Excuse me.”

A hand on the shoulder. An ice infusion behind the eyes. A jackboot in the solar plexus. Then calm. A second or two passed before Trim wheeled round to face the owner of the voice in the Gents’. He held the Sainsbury’s bag in his hand, the rainbow pressed opaquely against the plastic.

“You forgot this.”

“What?”

“This.”

“Oh.”

“You left it on the floor. It is yours, isn’t it?”

Quick. The right answer. Yes? No? Look at the eyes. Force yourself to look at the eyes. Do it! Nothing. No hint of knowledge.

“Thanks.”

Careful. Must be more careful.

Exit.

Revolving the card rack.

Out.

There were telephone boxes opposite the side entrance of Cavendish House, nestling near the door of the Registry Office. The doors were locked, the Office closed, but in the cracks of the stone doorstep, trapped by frost and footfalls were countless scraps of pastel tissue petals, hinting at happiness. The coins in his hip pockets jangled noisily. He thought of phoning, of using up all the small change. The booth held traces of the claustrophobia. He held the door ajar with an elegant shoe. He searched the directory for the Stonehouse code. It had slipped his mind. Stonehouse; the thought of moving back and into the Council House did not hold much appeal. He had become so used to the Mews cottage and the idea of the green distempered kitchen walls disturbed him. But he needed to be close. Not to the old man though. He had become almost an abstraction. His written words seemed more alive 

The phone rang. And again.

“Stonehouse 8117”

“Rebecca?”

Oh no. Silence. Janet knew that something was not quite right.

“Rebecca. Is Sarah coming out to play?”

Janet could no longer keep up the silence.

“Who is this? Are you sick or something? Leave Becky alone you maniac. Stop pestering her or I’ll…”

Click.

Becky emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel.

“Who was it?” she asked brightly. But she could see by the look on Janet’s face exactly who it had been.

“It’s time for the police, love.”

“You know what they said. They won’t do anything.”

“Well, at least get the number changed.”

“He hasn’t called for more than a week.”

“He called just now.”

“I thought it was all finished with.”

“He mentioned Sarah.”

Becky turned very pale. She sat down on the arm of Fred’s armchair, wringing the tea towel in her hands.

“Oh, god! What did he say?”

“He said...is Sarah...coming out...to play.”

“Oh god, Jan! Why is he doing this? Why? Who is he?”

Becky looked down at the armchair and began to cry softly.

“Oh Fred. Fred!”

Janet put her arm around Becky’s shoulder and looked out at the light flurries of snow that sparkled in the bright sunshine. Becky wiped her eyes on the tea towel and stood up. She picked up the phone and began to dial.

“Who are you calling, love? The police?”

“I’m going to phone Mrs. Trim. I want to know that Sarah’s all right.”  

She slammed the phone down before completing dialling. Her voice was steady.

“I will not let him drive me crazy.”

“That’s my girl.” Janet said with uncertainty.

The two women fell silent, lost in difficult thoughts. 

“She’s taken her to ballet anyway. You won’t be late picking her up from there, will you?”

“No, of course not.” Janet said.

“Not even five minutes?”

“She comes out at five. I’ll be there at ten to.”

“I don’t mean to sound so silly.”

“You don’t sound silly.”

“I really appreciate what you’ve been doing, Jan, I really do.”

“I’m glad to do it. I love Sarah like she were my own.”

“Sarah is all I have.”

“I know. Don’t worry, love, I’m always there on time.”

Becky looked at her watch. Almost noon.

“I’ve got to dash. I’ll be late otherwise. I almost forgot these reports I came back for. We’re off up to Slad today. There’s a cottage up by the Lee pub up for grabs. Wouldn’t mind it myself. It needs some doing up though.”

“You go on. I’ll be there for Sarah.”

“Don’t forget her ballet things, she usually does.”

“Don’t worry. I know.”

“Jan, I’ve got to go.”

“Go on with you.”

“I’ll be back a bit after six.”

“Just go, love.”

“Bye, then.”

“Becky, the reports.”

“Oh, god! Am I losing my mind?”

Janet watched Becky marching smartly away from the house. Somehow she looked younger since Fred’s death. She had lost weight, Janet thought. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. The phone rang. She didn’t answer. She drank her coffee slowly in Becky’s kitchen before returning to her own kitchen to scrape the potatoes.

Trim squeezed past the customers lined up along the Wellington Lounge bar. The lunchtime drinkers came from the banks and estate agents of Alba Terrace, closing ranks in the crush, wallets bulging with credit cards and Luncheon Vouchers. Trim was on his way out when the first victim attempted to settle his round. He left the uproar quietly behind him as he slipped into The Sandwich Place for a coffee and a quiche sliver, all blue cheese and smoked ham. The wood-walled concoction of rooms and extensions was peopled with lovers and shoppers and students from the College of Art. And with actors from the repertory, filling the air with ‘dahlings’ and cold cream. Not a Snakette to be seen. Trim kept his hands to himself and his quiche, the kid gloves removed and warming around the mug of cappuccino. He caught sight of thin lips and a thin moustache through the stream of conversation and he straightened himself in his chair, but the reflection gazed dully back from the fogged mirror with a total lack of interest. It would have to be Lenny that tamed the sudden pressure against the thigh.

“Excuse me is this seat free?”

An actor’s lisp. A keen eye. He had sized up Trim. The money. And more. Trim spat out his reply.

“Fuck off, faggot!”

No more than a whisper, but with the edge of a switchblade. Back to the quiche. Pain inflicted upon the weak no longer offered any thrill. He had tasted death and the taste was sweet.

The day tumbled headlong into premature dark, the glistening sheen of the Prom like a glaze of cold sweat. Anger and frustration grew. It was time. Time for snow. Time for Lenny. Time for the release of pure sound and exquisite pain. Almost time for that.

He kept his eyes fixed. Following the white line that stretched ahead. The world rushed by unheeded. The night was still and the moon waxed, a vague glimmer, casting a sallow gleam across the hard lacquer surface of the Japanese table. His agitation smoothed out into a wide horizon of calm certainty. Unbroken tones of synthesiser washed around him, the CD pre-programmed for the chaste patina of Schultze and Parmegiani.

He felt intense pleasure as he rolled the silver tube between his thumb and forefinger. The lines of cocaine resembled the claw marks of a tiger on the Cararra marble coaster. Four fine lines. With one, came the blinding light, with two - the mushroom cloud, rising, riveting the bolts of heaven. With the third line came the levelling out, pouring like molten gold along the edge of the world. This glimpse obliterated all but the need for the forth, the final line. He could never recall taking the final line.

He lay back on the bed. Once more the atoms shifted, trickling along the smooth sided silica cloud of the time funnel. The music wrapped itself around his wings, close like a tattoo, leaving a filmy screed of mother-of-pearl trapped in his pores. He felt ancient wounds open and weep, scattered thoughts rise and disintegrate, leaving scars upon his memory. There was no experience to equal this.

He lay upon the bed, perfectly still, in a state of grace. Time for the diary. It lay near his pillow. Face down. Parchment kissing silk. Suddenly the music was wrong. The hard electronic shocks too obtuse for the delicacy of the high-plane mood. His fingers traced the ordered rows of spines, searching for the rich grey mass of Neptune. Holst. His fingers brushed at the CD, programming the final movement. Repeat, repeat, repeat. The ethereal voices circling in ever-widening ripples toward fronteirless space, stretching the edge of the quasar that engulfed him.

October 31, 1939. Another smuggled moment. I fear the news. She must not hear. We will hear only music. The sacred ebony discus, slipped from its manila sheath, glinting in the candlelight. The small phonograph is reverently wound in readiness, awaiting the gentle marriage of pinpoint and groove, vibrating sweet tones to bridge the chasm of time, stirring the darkest inner breath to a sigh, whispering, silk soft tread and I look up to see you whirling, lost in bliss, your serious face fixed on the movement, the music. We should have stayed.

There was a brief moment of panic before sleep took over. Someone’s eyes were following the swooping hand, watching the thin keen blade, feeling the skin pierce and part, cartilage and muscle and the scrape of a rib. Who? Who? Oh. Yes, of course. Now the heartbeats could slow, now sleep could come drifting by on waves of sound barely passing the threshold of audibility. He would wake to the repetitions long hours later. The diary slipped noiselessly to the Persian rug, loosening two or three more juniper needles, releasing the faintest layer of fragrance into the air.