‘There you go, love,’ the remarkably small, blanked-out face, says. ‘Rice pudding.’
I turn back towards the room – which I try to imagine is full of an appreciative audience, instead of nosy, sly glances – and see my new room-mate waving at me. Lisa or Linda or something. Her mouth’s wide open and her teeth are crooked and small, and yellow, which may or may not be the light.
‘How’ya?’ One of the older women greets me as I approach the table, not looking for a response as she attacks the last of the gristle on her plate. I swallow down bile.
‘Good you came,’ Lisa or Linda says. ‘Get that into you, now. Nothing till the morning.’
I spoon big lumps of the rice pudding, which tastes nothing like rice but rather some kind of lard, into my mouth, avoiding the act of speaking. I pretend I’m playing helicopters with Tommy. He’d like this: innocuous in colour and texture, and no living thing murdered in the making, or so I’d convince him. If I will it hard enough I can conjure his little warm body sitting on my knee, a shield against the world. Lllove you, Yaya. Bigger better brighter than the wideroundy world. Rat-a-tat. Boom. He points to his heart. My stomach bloats after a few mouthfuls and that old familiar pain settles in my guts. Could I ask for an antacid, or something to soothe the fire? That used to do it, before I discovered the liquid silk that could anaesthetise me to everything. A craving takes over my whole body, a longing that is physical and intense and sweet and powerful and painful. As if on the verge of an orgasm that will always be on the brink, never satisfied.
I regard the table of six women, all of whom must be struggling with similar stuff. This doesn’t bring any relief, or feeling of solidarity, as it should. If anything, it just intensifies the already harsh critical voices. Such failures, such abject failures. Can’t be as bad as any of these women, with their broken veins and yellow eyes. I should just get up and walk away from here.
Chew on the inside of my cheek, survey the room. My father’s voice inside my head: ‘Pathetic, weak-willed creatures.’ Yes siree, Pops! I look at the gloop in my bowl, drop my spoon, close my eyes and feel the heat of a spotlight trained on me, the hushed crowds, the sound of the blood rushing in my ears, words, transporting words, the power of those words that make me, and everyone watching, believe I am someone else. I should never have stopped stepping into that imaginary realm; it was the only thing that made sense of who I am. I open my eyes: some of the women are staring at me. Can’t imagine any of them being impressed by my glittering past. Get down off your pedestal and get real. I’m sure I can hear these thoughts broadcast on the airwaves, and they belong to the woman who had gristle in her mouth.
11
Post-dinner, we’re ushered into a cold hall, which reeks of a stale gymnasium, old sweat and a squirt of polish mingling in the air. My sense of smell is heightened and I’m constantly nauseous, like when I was pregnant. Orange plastic chairs are laid out in rows, facing a podium, presided over by a looming effigy of the Virgin Mary. Tommy would love this giant statue. Feel faint from the longing to hold him. I pinch myself on the back of my hand and settle myself in the far corner. The old nun leading the round of prayer （ten Hail Marys, one Lord’s Prayer） reminds me of the four decrepit sisters that taught in our school: Sister Rachel, Joan, Maria and… I can’t remember the last one’s name, the mean one, the one who had a knuckle ring that she’d grind into the back of your hand if caught daydreaming, which in my case was often. I haven’t heard the rosary since those days when we’d be made to recite it in assembly. Haven’t forgotten, though: an incantatory, mesmeric repetition of hazy words from another era. It’s almost soothing, were it not so troubling. Folk around me mumble, drift, snooze, snore their way through, bobbing their heads at the appropriate moments, bodies swaying, eyes closed. Somnambulists. The words have no resonance, yet the effect of sitting in a room such as this with only one sound echoing is strangely soothing. People look vulnerable, on their knees, chanting words they probably don’t even understand. They are like oversized children. A tenderness settles in my body, lifting me out of myself for one blessed moment.
After it finishes, I feel weepy and sleepy and alone and very, very young. A man moves to the top of the room, sits in a chair facing the rest of us and starts to speak. ‘I’d like to share my experience, strength and hope…’ What follows is anything but. He credits the ‘guys’ in here with saving his life – the men in these rooms, and the Man Above. Not a mention of a woman, although his body is framed by the giantess in the background. Voices loom from the backs of heads; I can’t see any faces, adding to the surreal quality of it all. There’s a kind of buddy-fraternity quality to the telling, war – hero stories swapped. Who has the greatest scars and, above all, who has the greatest capacity for forgiveness and gratitude and acceptance? – buzzwords the men trade in, with no irony or self-consciousness. One man in his fifties tells of shooting up with his mother when he was eleven; another, aged eight, watched his father throw himself into the canal on his fortieth birthday. His is three days away, he says, and he is terrified. The man on the podium is full of gratitude for all he’s been given since coming here six weeks ago: fellowship, friendship, a kind ear, a warm bed, good food, a soft place, something he’s not encountered in his last three years sleeping on the streets. There are stories of prison sentences: ‘This is better than that,’ one fella jokes. There’s lots of laughter, a jovial sense of a shared experience. The women don’t speak, don’t seem to take up any space. I am welcomed as the newcomer and invited to speak. Wavy lines float in front of my eyes.