Couldn’t let go.
Thought about the river in the centre of the city. Under there. Never found. Thought about that.
43
Somebody had written on a wall Five London Lives. I stared at this. What did it mean? Somehow it made me uncomfortable, but that can’t be, because I was dead.
The river was still beautiful because darkness was coming. It was livid black-green and rippled with the gilded-oil snakes.
I didn’t try to jump in.
Didn’t want to spoil it.
No. I couldn’t understand it. I didn’t think the surface would break and let me through. Like as I’d lie on top and it would drag me away, and everyone staring, girls and males. And Coal would lean down and spit on me.
44
By the time I reached the flat-house again it was Zone 42 and one half. The Forest had no fire-flies, and all the float-lamps were out. And I could only see because the sky was very bright with lots of stars sewn on there, most of them manmade, they say, don’t they. And the moon was standing high up, and it was white, dead white.
I didn’t want to be there, but where else? I didn’t want to be anywhere. Not even under the river in case, then, all I could be would be memory, remembering.
But I looked up at the flat-house, and even the old man’s lights were shielded fully. You never see the old woman’s lights.
Then I saw there was a light. In my social room.
I stood there, looking over, staring. I was amazed, and my true misery I forgot. Because why was there a light showing from my window when you never could see my lights from the street.
After this, another thing happened.
Up to the inside of my window came this old, old man. And he stood quite still, and as I stood looking up at him, he looked down at me. He held a funny glass in his hand, like glasses were centuries ago that you see in museums on quick-view. And in the glass was a red drink he was drinking very fast. But he paused a moment, and waved at me.
He waved.
The old, old man.
At me.
From inside my flat.
Emenie:
45
Despite getting sausages and cigarettes for Sy’s return, little Micki showed no wish to leave my house. Not illogically, perhaps. Something in her brain had figured out that, while she was away and couldn’t know, she could believe he might meanwhile have returned there.
I understood though the Bruvva figure could again turn up for real. So I had asked her if this would occur. She had assured me he’d gone off to Wales. Wales! How—? She said he knew a man with a van that worked, and they had been hoarding petrol for the holiday. And there were still boats, didn’t I know? She had told him to leave me alone, as well, she said. Inevitably, however, I knew too that if she vanished, just as Sy already had, Bruvva was likely to reappear in my life. I’d tackle that when it happened. He had struck me as fairly moronic. Though sometimes extra dangerous, morons are easier to remove. By which I don’t necessarily mean through murdering them—as I never want to, when they’re not labelled in the right way, the way that links them to me. As was Micki.
Really I must admit, I just needed to settle with her. Concentrate solely on her.
My reflections as we returned from the shopping spree were strong and lasting. I had to put her out of awareness before her optimism failed her. Before the night fell, darkness, disquiet.
I used the oven, saying it sometimes worked at midday—and see!—it did. And we had hot lamb chops and tinned carrots, and for dessert dried morello cherries and long-life tinned cream. Then coffee with Vodka. She even smoked one of the cigarettes she had got for Sy.
The sky turned gradually greyer and more grey. Then a pigeon landed on the sill of the kitchen, where you could still see out.
The shadow patterns on the pigeon’s back were clearly legible to me.
Each of them confirmed the stages of what I must do.
We moved into the main room. It was a nice indoor afternoon. Cosy. I turned on the electric fire and by now she merely accepted I could run it for a while. I too was much more at ease, cheerful and relaxed. Now I had a firm grip of the plan.
46
At what I took to be four o’clock, and before the true full dark began to gather, I turned off the fire by the hidden switch. Micki was dozing and didn’t see.
Making out I too had taken a nap in the armchair, I woke her by a prolonged, rather vigorous yawn.
“Sorry. We both probably needed a sleep.”
“I shouldn’t. I slept so well last night on your couch.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay tonight as well, if you like. Only tomorrow my bloke’s coming over, so…”
“Oh! Of course.”
I had introduced the falsehood of a masculine partner to reassure her I had no Lesbian designs on her, but she seemed rather deflated. So I added, thoughtfully, “Though, if you won’t mind him, I’m sure he won’t mind you—he’s a nice guy. We usually go to that house over the park. They have bands sometimes and sort-of wine—rather like that beer you talked about, maybe. But it’s not too bad. If you’d like to come along with us.”
She smiled. “I’d like that. Thank you. If you’re sure he’ll be OK.”
“He’s easy-going, my feller,” I said.
Then I had a ‘brainwave’. “I’ve just thought, if the fire came on for a bit, we’ve probably got hot water. Would you like a bath?”
She was the child again, and it was a Charles Dickens Christmas.
“Oh—yes—in the caravan—well we never get water, let alone hot water—but what about you?”
“I get to have lots of baths. It’s your turn.”
She hadn’t seen the bathroom till then, only the cloakroom with
