This was my special stash, used only on specific occasions; not for celebrations, nor social gatherings, but for when I needed it most – like tonight. I used it infrequently, because it was highly addictive and I couldn’t afford to become highly addicted. Snow. Coke. C. Charlie. Cocaine. A cheap commodity nowadays compared to some other drugs, but still prohibitive for the likes of me. Beneficial though, at certain times. The quick rush would take me through to the other side of this trauma, the sense of wellbeing would overwhelm all else. I’d become a man again.
I took the jar through to the bathroom, unscrewed the lid and placed both on the glass shelf in front of the mirror, all routine and carried out in semi-darkness. Only then did I pull the string that operated the bare light-bulb over my head.
Dipping my fingers into the coarse coffee grains I drew out a tightly sealed plastic bag, inside which was another tightly sealed plastic bag. I unsealed the first, extracted the second, opened it and carefully poured a portion of the white powder on to a clear area of the glass shelf, my right hand trembling so badly I had to steady it with my left. I took a razor blade from the medicine cabinet beside the wall mirror and left it next to the little white hill of euphoria, of instant Nirvana, of deceptive redress, while I returned to the kitchen to get a straw. A dozen of them stood in a long plastic tumbler on a high shelf and I had to stand on tip-toe to reach them. I pulled out one and snipped it in half with scissors from a cupboard drawer before hobbling back to the bathroom.
My hand still shaking, I used the razor blade to make thin uneven lines of the coke, then bent forward with the brightly striped straw stuck half-way up my nose. I sucked up white bliss like an anteater snorting lines of ants, working my way along the short rows, thumb against the clear nostril, until only a scattering of fine dust remained. The high hit me almost immediately, a rush that was like nothing else on this earth for quick, appeasing pleasure and I jerked upright (as upright as my body would allow), still inhaling as I did so, my good eye closing as the exultation flooded my brain and a lightness swept through me.
I let out a long sigh and removed the straw, my other hand gripping the edge of the sink, the trembling already beginning to calm itself as my whole being relaxed into a wonderfully silky warmth. Pain still throbbed, but it was accommodated, harboured within a better sensation. I moaned aloud and went with the flow, my chest swelling as my misery detached itself from my psyche and floated to another place, still in reach but sequestered for the moment. The rapture swept through me and I accepted it gratefully, my poor misshapen head rocking back, my lips split into a grin of joy, my eyelids closed so that a few more tears were squeezed between them.
But when I lowered my head and opened my eye again another’s face was staring out at me from the bathroom mirror.
I staggered, just a step backwards, my gaze never shifting from the figure that stood watching me from the realm beyond the glass.
I knew that face. I knew those strong, handsome features, the deep, brown eyes framed by heavy, almost feminine, lashes, the classic and very masculine shape of the nose, the lips so defined and sensual in their half-smile, the jutting, cleft chin, so rugged in its appeal, softened only slightly by that carnal mouth. Somehow I recognized the smoothed-back black hair, sleek and glossy in the mirrored light, and the heavy eyebrows, beautifully shaped over those watchful, amused eyes.
I knew this person.
Those broad shoulders, with their relaxed strength, underlying tension beneath a studied looseness, was familiar to me. I knew this man clad in shiny-lapelled tuxedo and black tie, was aware of the raw, even coarse, nature that the fine apparel disguised.
And from the expression in those roguish yet brooding eyes, I was aware that this person also knew me.
I think I swooned from shock just then, or else the room itself spun around me, and it was only the strange, extraneous sound of the doorbell that stopped me from passing out completely.
10
Whoever it was at the front door wouldn’t go away. There was I, holding on to the bathroom sink, now with both hands, my eye shut again – I didn’t want to see that handsome image in front of me any more – and my body still swaying, my legs enfeebled, while that persistent bellringer kept their finger against the button, releasing the pressure every now and again before starting all over, the shrill sound travelling down the short hallway and driving me crazy with its insistence.
‘Go ’way,’ I mumbled, not sure myself if I were talking to the visitor outside or the phantom in the mirror. ‘Go away!’ I hissed, and then I opened my eye, very slowly, afraid of what I might see again.
Even as I did so, a vague recollection of having observed or perceived that handsome countenance in the past came to me, vague, peripheral glimpses that were always reflections, never the real thing, nebulous visions that vanished before they could be fastened on. Now relief – oddly tainted by disappointment – shuddered through me as my own unsightly features gawped back from the mirror.
I scrutinized my reflection, wondering at the hallucination of a moment before, silently asking myself what the hell was it with me and mirrors these days? Had the sudden rush of cocaine triggered the illusion? But I wasn’t doped up yesterday when I stood in front of that cracked mirror in the repossessed house. The sound of the doorbell startled me again.
The bell, the bell. The bells, the bells. I shivered at the thought of those girl-gang jibes, my misery returning like a great grey cloud of chemical poison. Where was the heady coke glow, where had it gone? I was stone-cold sober, yet the traces of white dust were still on the glass shelf before me, evidence of what I’d sniffed only a few moments ago.
Knocking now. The person at the front door had given up the bell and was now rapping wood. And calling to me, calling my name. A woman’s voice, soft but loud enough to reach me in the bathroom. I swore and screwed up my face even more. I had to open the door. Whoever it was outside was not going away.
Sluggishly I wiped powder residue from the shelf with my hand, then returned the rest of the stash in the clear plastic bag to the coffee grains, pushing down hard, burying it beneath them. Yanking the light cord so the bathroom was in darkness once more, I went to the kitchen and put the coffee jar on the working surface next to the sink. Then I drew in three long breaths, steadied myself, and limped down the hall to the front door.
She was small, smaller then me, and her face, illuminated by the light behind me, was round and concerned. Somehow I knew who she was even before she spoke.
‘I’m Louise Broomfield.’
I wondered why she was swaying, gently rocking backwards and forwards, then I realized it was me who was in motion. I held on to the door and squared my feet against the hall carpet.
‘Are you all right, Mr Dismas?’
She reached out a hand, but quickly withdrew it when I flinched away. The clairvoyant had been squinting at me because the light at my back obviously threw me into gloomy silhouette, but now her eyes widened as she got a closer look.
‘My God . . .’ she said in a whisper.
At the time I thought her reaction was due to my appearance together with the general dishevelment and marks the beating had left; later I was to discover it was because of something else entirely.
It was a few seconds before she had recovered enough to say: ‘May I come in, Mr Dismas? It’s important that I talk to you.’
‘Uh, no. I don’t think so. It’s kind of late and I’ve had a heavy day.’ Any irony wasn’t intended: I just wanted to be left in peace to lick my wounds, brood over the mental hurts, consider reflections in mirrors. My voice sounded slurred to me and I wondered if she thought I was drunk; I decided I didn’t care.
‘Please,’ she said urgently, the flat of her hand against the closing door. ‘It really is very important.’
I hesitated, unable to make up my mind. I wasn’t usually ill-mannered towards sweet-looking old ladies (although often they could be rude to me), but I really wasn’t in the mood to discus
s missing children and dishonest clients. I suppose it was her wide-eyed earnestness that persuaded me; either that or it was just plain too difficult to shut the door in her face, no matter how awful I felt right then.
‘Okay, just . . . just say what you’ve got to say, then leave me alone.’
‘Won’t you invite me in? A few minutes of your time, that’s all I need.’
Reluctantly – very reluctantly – and aware I was in no state to offer resistance, I stood aside so that the clairvoyant could come through.
She seized the opportunity, her feet across the threshold before I could change my mind, and she watched me all the way, her eyes never dropping from mine.
‘Room on the right,’ I instructed her and ran my hands over my face as she disappeared into the sitting-room. Closing the door, my shoulder brushed against the wall for support as I followed her down the hall. I paused in the doorway to switch on the sitting-room light and I lingered there awhile, appraising this little, rotund woman who’d invaded my space; the appraisal was reciprocal. She continued to gawk at me, and I was certain now that it wasn’t because of my poor condition; I was used to stares, and hers was different – somehow it had more depth to it. Louise Broomfield had thoughts about me well beyond what she could plainly see.
‘It had to be you,’ she said quietly.
‘Nice song,’ I replied sourly, still wondering what had happened to the coke euphoria. ‘I could sing a few bars, if you’d like.’
There was no smile, but she didn’t appear to be offended. ‘You must think I’m a little bit batty,’ she said. ‘It’s the usual response.’
I could have told her all about usual responses, but I didn’t. Instead I said: ‘Look, I’m not feeling too good right at this moment, so can we make it short. There’s nothing more I can do for Shelly Ripstone and I’m surprised she persuaded you to visit me.’
Concern glimmered in her eyes again. ‘Oh no, Shelly didn’t ask me to see you. She told me your enquiries had come to nothing, but she had no idea I would come to see you personally. No, that was entirely my own idea, Mr Dismas.’
She had a soft, reassuring voice, one that went with the kindness in her face. Louise Broomfield’s hair was grey-white and she sported the kind of hairdo ladies of a certain age – sixty and over – seemed to wear like military helmets: neat, pulled away from the face, stiff-permed. Her dress was pale blue, her full breasts resting on a full tummy, and her shoes were a sensible brown brogue (not unlike the kind Ida usually wore), her stockings those thick sort that concealed varicose veins. A light, pink raincoat, open down the front, hung well below the dress and in her hand she carried a stubby, closed umbrella, tiny droplets of water sparkling from it like sequins. Studded through her earlobes were discreet shiny earrings that twinkled like faraway stars whenever she moved her head. She looked powdered and smelled scented, although her lipstick barely tinted her lips, and her eyes were a pallid green.
‘How did you find my home address?’ I didn’t really care – she was here anyway – but I suppose I was stalling for time, trying to pull myself together.
‘You gave your home number to Shelly when you agreed to take the case, so the address was easy to get from Directory.’ Her hand stretched towards me again; she seemed to be a reach-out kind of lady. ‘You’ve been hurt, Mr Dismas. There’s blood on your face and shirt. Shouldn’t you call a doctor or go to casualty?’
I was suddenly conscious of the wetness beneath my ear and under my chin, and when I touched my skin my fingers came away sticky with blood. From the throbbing pain just below the closed hole where my other eye used to be, I knew there’d be a swelling by morning. ‘No, I’m all right. Just a disagreement with some . . . with some people on my way home. No real damage done.’
‘Are you sure? At least let me clean it up for you.’
Clean it up? Maybe wash away the humiliation at the same time? Could she get rid of the degradation while she was at it? I didn’t think so.
‘Mrs Broomfield, I’m tired. And yes, I’m hurting quite a bit too. I want to lie down and rest if that’s okay with you. I’m trying – believe me, I’m trying – not to be rude, but I want you to say what you have to say, and then leave. D’you get me?’
‘Of course, I understand. Why don’t you sit yourself down and let me make you a cup of tea? It’ll perk you up.’
Perk me up? Perk me up? God save me from the kind and caring. She means well, I told myself, she doesn’t realize she’s a bloody nuisance, she doesn’t know how close to the edge I am. Resignedly, I went over to the battered sofa and sank into its soft cushions. ‘No tea,’ I said to her, defiant to the last. ‘A brandy might help, though. A large one.’
‘I think you’ve drunk enough alcohol this evening, Mr Dismas.’ There was no mistaking the accusation in those pale green eyes; I got the feeling she knew I’d taken something else besides a few whiskies and beers, but was choosing not to mention it. ‘How about some coffee? Yes, that would be more appropriate in the circumstances. It won’t take a jiffy.’
She was out the door before I could stop her. Oh hell, I thought to myself, let her get on with it. It’ll give me more time to get my act together. The clairvoyant was back before I’d even had the chance to light a cigarette, bringing a dampened bathroom towel with her.
‘Here, wipe the blood away with this, then hold the towel against your ear for a while.’ Wordlessly, I took the wet cloth from her. ‘Oh dear, I think you’re going to have quite a bruised cheek. Use the end of the towel to press against it; it might help reduce the swelling.’
I did as I was told and she disappeared again. My thoughts went back to the mirror and the image I’d seen therein; I was surprised to find the shock had lessened. Maybe the coke’s feel-good factor was finally kicking in again and I was mellowing out enough at least to accommodate the bizarre bathroom episode. I heard the cluttering of crockery from the other room.
‘Christ – ’ I shot off the sofa, moving as fast as my shaky legs would carry me. ‘Not that one!’ I shouted when I reached the kitchen.
But it was too late. The spoon was already scooping into the jar and I could see the top of the powder-filled plastic bag emerging from the coffee grains. The clairvoyant had spotted it too and I could tell by her expression she knew exactly what was inside the package.
‘Not that coffee,’ I said lamely, opening a cupboard door above a work surface and reaching in.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologized, quickly screwing the lid back on the jar she held in her hand.
I took it from her, handing over the legit coffee jar as I did so, both embarrassed and angry at being found out. ‘It helps sometimes,’ I growled defensively.
‘It’s none of my business, Mr Dismas.’ She busied herself filling the kettle with water.
‘You can’t understand what it’s like for me,’ I said quietly, some of that anger cooling.
‘I think I might have an idea.’
‘No. No you don’t. You have to live it to know.’
She pushed the plug into the kettle and switched it on. ‘I have an imagination.’
I gave a snort of derision. ‘You can imagine what it’s like to be trapped inside a shell so hideous it makes you ashamed to walk the streets? What it’s like to be pointed out as if you’re some kind of freak? You know the kind of physical pain a twisted body gives you? The fear of losing sight in your only good eye? The refusal of your own body to do what comes so naturally to other people? You know all that, you can imagine it?’ My short laugh was full of rancour and she had the decency to lower her gaze. ‘You have no idea,’ I told her.
‘I’m sor – ’
‘Don’t keep apologizing! It’s not your fault, you didn’t do this to me. Just don’t patronize me. And okay, so I take a little stuff now and again. It helps get me through. For a little while I can escape who – what – I am. The feeling doesn’t last long, but it helps me get by. Can you understand that? It makes me feel fine, and sometimes it takes me
somewhere else, some place where I can see, I can sense, other things, better things.’
‘No, Mr Dismas.’ My anger didn’t intimidate her. ‘Drugs never really work that way. They close down your sensibilities so that reality can’t interfere with your delusions. It might be pleasant, it might make you feel better, at peace with the world, but it isn’t the truth.’
‘Well, who the fuck needs the truth!’
She took a step backwards, suddenly afraid of my rage, and I was immediately contrite. I hadn’t meant to scare her, it was just frustration, self-pity, resentment – you name it.
The kettle bubbled steam and switched itself off. Something was thumping hard inside my head.
‘You ought to go,’ I said more quietly, although no more calmly. ‘I’m bad company tonight.’
The clairvoyant managed a weak smile. ‘You’ve taken more than just a beating. Please go and sit down and let me bring you a cup of coffee. Would you like something for your headache?’
I looked at her sideways. ‘How did you know I had a headache?’
She laughed and there was no fear in the sound. ‘After all you’ve been through tonight, why wouldn’t you have one?’
I returned to the sofa in the sitting-room, puzzled, mystified, by this little old lady. My head hurt like hell and my body was a mass of aches and pains. The swelling below my absent eye provided its own special torment. But although I’d taken a lot of kicking, a lot of bruising, the worst thing going on was in my mind: the memory of that charming face in the mirror. Yesterday monsters, tonight perfection. From the grotesque to the sublime. Visions through a glass darkly.
‘Here we are.’ Louise Broomfield bustled in like a squat Angela Lansbury, Disney’s Mrs Potts to my Beast, and carefully placed the mug of coffee on the small table next to the sofa, shifting aside one of the heavy art volumes I kept close at hand for easy browsing (the lives and works of the masters is another one of my ‘things’; I guess I used wonderful images as an escape route when reality was on overload) to make room. ‘It’s very hot, so don’t scald yourself. Now, let’s see about that headache of yours.’