Musclebound (13 page)

I went north over Lambeth Bridge, turned east, and then came south again across Westminster, and then east again, then north over Waterloo. And I thought I was going to keep driving north, east, south, east, north and east again till I ran out of bridges and it was daylight.

So I had to give up on bridges. Bridges is a waste of time if there’s something you want to drop off of them without anyone seeing.

And another funny thing – London has the River Thames running the whole way through it. But it’s bloody hard to get a car close to the water – except in places like bridges where everyone else can get close to
you
. There’s always a building in the way.

I thought of driving out to the country. There’s lots of dead things left lying on roads in the country. But even country people would sit up and notice if I dumped Wozzisname on the ground with all the dead badgers and rabbits.

I got almost to Greenwich, and by that time I reckon I’d of settled for a deep puddle or a hole in the road. But I couldn’t find one of them neither. I almost gave up and took the dead bloke back home. I couldn’t make up my mind which was
worse – having him at home or driving him around in my sister’s car.

I was feeling very queer and lonely, and I didn’t really know where I was. I was squinting this way and that, not knowing what to look for, when all of a sudden I realised I was going through a place where there were yards like my yard – yards with car bodies, metal and lifting gear in them. And it was quiet.

It was quiet because there weren’t no blocks of flats or shops or high streets. Just junk-yards. So I nosed around, driving slowly in a circle. And right up close to the river I found an empty space with a Portakabin in front and nothing but a few hulking trucks behind.

That’s when the Clio ran out of petrol. I’d just noticed a sign on the Portakabin that said ‘Security Office’. And I’d thought – that’s the first likely place I seen all night. Except for the security guard, which made it impossible. I was about to drive on when the Clio decided to run out of petrol.

It just coughed and died. And there I was, outside a security guard’s office with a dead bloke.

When I was driving it was like he was chasing me. Now that I stopped I sort of expected for him to sit up and tap me on the shoulder. He’d caught up.

I was so spooked I got out and walked away. Well, what was I supposed to do? The Clio ran out of gas. Outside a security guard’s Portakabin. Just like that. There’s only so much a woman can stand, and I hit my limit.

I walked away. I crossed the road and started to walk back west. Then I stopped and looked round.

The Clio was sat in the middle of the road. It was in a no-parking zone. There wasn’t any other cars. The Clio sat all by itself in the middle of the road saying, ‘Oi! Look at me.’ I s’pose if I painted it stripy and stuck a flashing beacon on its nose it’d be more obvious. Hard to see what else you could do.

And it was Simone’s car.

So I just stood there. And after a while, I calmed down a bit
and saw that there was no light on in the security cabin. There was a TV aerial, but no blue flicker, so the TV wasn’t on neither. There was blinds at the windows, but they weren’t closed.

If I was lucky, there was no security guard in there.

Was I lucky? Well, after the night I’d been having, would you bet your mortgage on me being lucky?

Me neither. I wouldn’t bet a dirty snot-rag on it.

On the other hand, there was bugger-all to guard. And there was no fence – just one of those weighted barriers which swings up when you press on the end.

So what was a security office doing there? The place was like a bloody great car-park or a site big enough to build a supermarket on, only there were no cars and no building works. Just some clapped-out old trucks, standing by themselves, at the back next to the river wall.

So I bet my freedom on it.

I walked back, pressed on the end of the barrier and swung it up. Then I waited for the flashing lights, sirens and armed guards.

Nothing.

I waited some more.

More nothing.

I went back to the Clio. I released the handbrake. I pushed. I pushed and steered till the Clio rolled past the swing barrier, past the security office, and into the big empty space.

I’d of pushed the Clio straight into the Thames if I could. But I couldn’t ‘cos there was a chest-high concrete wall stopping me.

I was streaming sweat and rain. I was gasping for breath. But I was well off the public road and there was only a wall between me and the river. I could hear the water lapping. Across the water it was all lit up. Across the water was a big shiny glass and steel development all lit up with peach and turquoise light. But on my side of the water it was dark and windy, and the river smelled old and dirty.

I pulled myself up on the wall and looked down. Down there was loppy choppy water. Down there was a dead bloke’s grave. Not far.

Not far at all, except Simone had the car keys in her pocket and I couldn’t open the back of the car.

I was jumping up and down. I was whining like a dog. I wanted to howl. I wanted to roar. I wanted to pick the Clio up in one hand and hurl it as far away from me as I could.

They say rage gives you strength. Maybe it does, but it doesn’t give you enough to chuck a car in the river.

And maybe you think a dead bloke should be treated with respect. He should be carried by six slow men looking sorrowful. He should have lilies and someone to cry for him.

Not this one. This one had to be dragged from the back of the car through to the front, and he had to be booted out through the door. Because he’d sort of set in a scrunched-up position. He wasn’t floppy no more. You couldn’t fold him, unfold him or bend him round corners.

I hope I never have to hate anyone that much again. I didn’t hate him that much when I hit him with his hammer. I was scared, I was angry, I was panicked when I hit him. That’s all it took to croak him – panic. But it took real blind rage and hatred to bury him.

Who the fuck was he to ruin my life and give me bad dreams and follow me like I was wearing him round me neck? Who the fuck was he to make me sweat, give me muscle cramp, break my back? Who the fuck asked him into my life? Who the fuck told him to manhandle my sister and put me in a stone panic? Not me. For sure, not me. It was his own sodding idea. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t my fault. And now I was having to clean up after him. Poor old Eva, don’t think about her – go right ahead and get yourself croaked in her yard. Go on. Leave her to pick up the pieces. By herself. As usual. Got any shit-work? Give it to poor old Eva. That’s all she’s good for.

I toppled Wozzisname off the concrete wall and he sploshed into the River Thames and the water ate him up.

You’ll never know what a weight it was off my back, off my mind, to see him go. The only thing I was sorry about was my
sleeping bag. Even with a hole burnt in it my sleeping bag was too cocking good for the likes of him. Splosh, he went. Splosh went the fire extinguisher and the hammer.

I wished I could of done it with a ton of Semtex – a bloody great explosion would of suited me better. ‘Splosh’ didn’t quite express my mood.

And I wasn’t done yet. Oh no. What about the car? The useless sodding car. The one with no gas in its tank. Think that’s going to grow legs and walk back home by itself? Ha-turding-ha. I had to push it. I had to push and steer it out past the Portakabin, out through the swing barrier, out on to the road, along the road. Push, steer, push, push, push.

So there I was, pushing, somewhere in Deptford, pushing, looking for a service station, pushing, and, knock me down with a number 9 bus, the steering flaked out. It locked. I couldn’t turn it no more. The creeping crappy Clio would only go in a straight line. And there aren’t any straight lines in London.

Well, that finished me. What was I supposed to do? I keep asking, but no one answers. I can’t keep making it up for myself. I can’t. I’m all wore out.

I was finished, done, through. This time when I left the Clio in the middle of the road I didn’t look back. I just walked away and kept on walking.

I know it was Simone’s car and she’d want it. I know it was hardly a mile from where I dumped Wozzisname. You don’t have to tell me. I
know
. But it was just too hard. And I was too tired.

So I walked away. Bugger it all. I don’t care if I spend the rest of me life in chokey. I can’t sort it out. It’s too hard.

My back hurt so much I couldn’t put my socks on. I couldn’t bend forward, and I couldn’t raise my knees high enough to get at my feet.

It’s a good thing I didn’t have to get up and open the door. Or it’s a bad thing, ‘cos the door swung open and Keif pranced in without knocking.

‘Doin’?’ he asked. But I’d slept so deep and dead that at first I couldn’t remember what the hell I
had
been doing.

‘What’s the time?’ I said.

‘Time for your weight-training,’ he said.

‘Where’s Milo?

‘I gave the puppy dog to Cousin Carmen fer to calm his nerves.’

It was four in the afternoon, and usually that’s a good time to get up. If you
can
get up. Me – I couldn’t even shout at Keif. I took a deep breath to bawl him out for not bringing Milo home, and my back went into spasm.

‘Eh, eh, honey babe,’ Keif said. ‘You hurt or what? Lay yerself down.’

I could hardly even do that. It was the curse of Wozzisname. I was paralysed in a scrunched-up position with a sock in one hand and all I could do was topple sideways on to the bunk just like Wozzisname toppling off the wall. He did this to me.

‘What you done, woman?’ Keif said.

‘Wrecked me back.’

‘You don’t want to go weight-training, just say so. Some folks do anything to get out of work.’

‘Ooof!’

‘What’s that? You chattin’ back or what? Just stay cool. Relax.’

Have you noticed? When it’s the last thing you can possibly do, people tell you to relax. Having a baby? Your whole family’s just been wiped out by a nuclear cloud? Your back’s in spasm? Relax. A dead bloke reached out of the river and put a hex on you? Just relax, babe. Stay cool.

Thanks a whole bloody bundle, Keif, honey babe.

‘Fuck off,’ I said, but Keif had already gone.

It couldn’t be anyone but Wozzisname. I got a back like an ox. I got more muscle in my back than most two people put together. I’m proud of my back. It never ever gave me no bother before. So what’s different now? Wozzisname. That’s what.

I think, now, I should of said a few words when I tipped him in the water. A few nice words, I mean. I did say a few words only they wasn’t the sort of words a dead bloke wants to hear. I should of said something like what they say at funerals. Just to make sure he didn’t come back and hex me. Only I don’t know what they say at funerals.

I never thought about it before – but why do you think they write stuff like ‘Rest In Peace’ on gravestones? Well, if you ask me, they don’t do that ‘cos they hope the dead bloke will have a nice quiet time when he’s under the gravestone. No. It ain’t a hope. It’s an order. It means, ‘Stay there. Don’t come crawling back to put the whammy on me, mate.’
You
rest. Give
me
the peace. Or stay cool. Relax. Which is what I’ll put on Keif’s gravestone. Which he’ll be needing sooner than he thinks.

No. No. Don’t listen. I can’t talk like that no more. I can’t talk like I want to do for Keif.

That’s part of the curse of Wozzisname. He’s taken all the fun out of saying stuff like, ‘I’ll sodding kill you.’ A killer can’t say that no more without she means it. Or she
might
mean it. For true. Who knows what she means any more.

I didn’t say, ‘I’ll sodding kill you,’ to Wozzisname. But I did kill him. I didn’t mean to. But I did. So I can’t go round saying the words no more. Because, now, they’re for real. They ain’t pretend words no more. Wozzisname took all the pretend out of the words.

Then Simone turned up. I’d given up on her. I’d wanted her, I’d waited for her all night. She didn’t come. And I thought we was back to square one – I’d have to wait another ten years before I saw her again.

She walked in and I couldn’t even sit up.

‘Eva,’ she said, ‘I … where’s …?’

‘Shut up,’ I said. ‘Keifs around.’

‘Where?’

‘Dunno.’ I couldn’t even look her in the eye ‘cos I was lying down.

She sat on the edge of the bunk next to me. ‘Why aren’t you up?’ she said. She smelled of scent and soap.

‘I wrecked my back,’ I said. ‘Last night.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Where …?’

‘Shshsh,’ I said.

‘I was only going to ask where you put my car,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Don’t ask,’ I said.

‘It’s important.’

‘Oh is it?’ I said. ‘Wasn’t it important last night?
Wasn’t
it? Where the fuck
was
you? Doing something
important?

‘Shshsh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something really awful to tell you.’

‘Eat it,’ I said. ‘Chew it and eat it yourself. You walked out on me.’ I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t take any more bad news. She walked off and left me when I was in more trouble than a one-legged matador in a bullring.

‘What’re you so umpty about?’ she said. ‘Boyfriend gave you a hard time? Is that how you did your back in?’

‘WHAT?’ And my back spasmed so hard I nearly reared off the bunk.

‘Well he was here last night and you say he’s around now.’

‘He didn’t stay. He ain’t my boyfriend. He
ain’t
. I got rid of him. Like you was supposed to do with yours. But you didn’t. You fucked off with him. You just blew – like you always do.’

‘I didn’t just blow,’ she said. ‘You’ve simply no idea what I went through last night.’

‘Big bloody deal,’ I said. ‘What about what
I
went through?’

‘Shut
up,’
she said. ‘We can’t talk about that if your. personal trainer’s coming back. There’s something else, so shut up and listen.’

‘Or what?’ I said. ‘Wotcha going to do? Walk out? Make me count to
two
hundred? Wotcha going to do, eh?’ And I sort of went, ‘Wooof,’ ‘cos my back knocked the breath out of me. It’s really hard to fight with someone when you’re lying flat and your back keeps going into spasm.