‘They don’t have the resources, I guess,’ I say.
‘This fucking government,’ Jean says politely. ‘Fucking shower of crooks.’
‘Nothing to do with the government, actually. The place I was in was run by a religious charity.’
‘Well, exactly. My point exactly. My commiserations, by the way.’
I smile, with no thought of the desired effect. ‘Actually, the old bats weren’t so bad.’
‘God, you’d have to drag me to a place like that kicking and screaming.’
Feel heat rise to my cheeks, ashamed and inflamed. ‘I didn’t exactly have a choice.’
‘We always have choices, dear. To think otherwise creates victimhood.’
No point in explaining any of it. I’m back in the real world and this is how it rubs up against me. Just another bossy, intrusive older woman, with her judgements. Would my own mother have been as disappointed in me? ‘Better get the little mite home. Thank you for the number.’
‘You’re welcome. Call any time, I mean it.’
This invitation sounds more like a command and I feel my body stiffen and shut down. ‘Kind of you, thank you.’ Manage to avoid any of the obligatory hugs, the kitten a shield.
‘Tend to that little yoke as you would your inner child,’ a discombobulated voice shouts out after me.
And that was supposed to make me feel connected, to loosen the shackles of ‘self’， to interrupt the patterning that used to drive me to stealing and glugging, to help calm the voices, counteract the frantic urges.
28
I settle myself into the driving seat, Marmie on my lap, and turn the key in the ignition, allowing the thrum of the engine to vibrate through me. Imagine Roberto snaking his hand up my thigh, his fingers opening me up as he drove at full throttle. My driving is chaotic and aimless, the void in my stomach creating a dizzy, edgy sensation. Must get the kitten something to eat. Pull the car to a stop outside the sliding door to Tesco, park in a disabled spot, hear Marmie’s squeals as I run. The lights are too bright, the trolleys too shiny and sharp, the shoppers too pale and pasty, too fat, their scent too chemical, the muzak too ugly, too artificial, the aisles too stocked, the world is Too.
I find myself in the booze aisle, but not before I’ve managed to find the cat food, fish fingers. Progress. Feel a tug at my hair shaft; haven’t felt that in a while. I sense rather than see my imp. She’s there alright, trying to bust through. The guys in rehab who relapsed said it usually happened in week two or three, when a certain confidence kicked in, a lowering of the guard, which led to them believe the burbling voices: Just the one, can’t do any harm, will never go back there, no siree, can handle it this time… I’ve never heard of anyone going straight back on the batter. But then maybe no one would admit to that. The Shame. Fingers rake through my scalp, a tightening, a constricting, vision tunnelling, perception narrowing to a single end point.
My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure others can hear it. Run to the car, drive it to a dark corner, open my bag: a motley assortment. Not sure whether I paid or not, the moment foggy in my mind. Unscrew the top of bottle numero uno – a feminine, jaunty little number – sniff, tentatively sip, inhale: sharp and sweet, citrus and candyfloss. Funny how little resistance there is, how my mind is not at war. All forces are galvanised towards the moment, all troops employed. A directive – steady and clear. No tormented decision-making process, just pure clarity, pure seeing. Sipping, delicately sipping, supping of my nectar, tracking my flight from heart to honeyed heart, from Tommy to Herbie to Marmie. I lift the little girl and kiss her on her precious button nose.
The car drives itself home. Now it’s taking on the contours of the place I left: hazy and soft. I float up the path. Key slides in the door, well oiled and pink, I’d forgotten how pink – a bright tap-dancing fuchsia. And there She is, in her full technicolour glory. No ignoring her now. A thrumming music in the air. Manage to carry all the bags, the three full remaining bottles, into the kitchen, the kitty rubbing my ankles, her purring mingling with the gentle piano chords. Limbs like syrup, mind sedated, creatures doused, unable to stir.
The kitten’s mewling intensifies. Greedy guts, Yaya, feed Marmie! I fork Whiskas into her bowl, which is emptied, filled, emptied, filled, the same number of times as my glass. How much can the little one’s tummy hold – and mine? Swells, with the music. Crescendos. Am I sated yet? Numb, yes, emptied out. I get it now, that expression the guys used: wiped. I’m wiped, I’ve wiped all semblance of myself off the planet.