They came back to Rosie’s just after ten, and ate some takeaway food. Midway through the meal, they heard a screaming, hoarse voice. Jake gestured for Rosie to stay at the table and crossed to the window, peered out, and sighed. ‘She’s home. I’d better go and give her a hand.’
Rosie could hear the sound of breaking glass, and went to the window.
Lorraine was standing in the middle of the road, swinging a doll by its arm. Her blouse was torn, her skirt hanging off and she was filthy. She swiped at Jake.
‘Fuck off! Fucking leave me alone, you shit!’
Jake backed off, arms raised, and Lorraine kicked out at him, swearing. A woman with a shopping cart was passing by and Lorraine caught her stare. ‘What you fucking looking at, you cunt? Fuck off — go on?
Jake had to coax and cajole her to come to the stairs leading up to Rosie’s apartment. It took him fifteen minutes to get her up them. She took two steps up and fell down three. She screeched with laughter, then slowly crawled up, only to insist on going down again as she had dropped her doll.
At last Jake got her into the apartment. She stood by the door. ‘Hi, Rosie. He fucked you yet?’
Rosie went into the kitchen as Jake tried to get Lorraine onto the sofa. Halfway there she pulled out her shirt, stripping it away from her skinny body: she fumbled with his pants. He swiped her hand aside and dragged her to the sofa, she fell, and slithered onto the floor.
‘Run the shower, Rosie,’ Jake said.
Lorraine stank of booze, vomit and urine. She had no jacket. She refused to release the doll even when they half carried her into the shower, ran the cold water over her, and between them stripped off her clothes, Jake paying no attention to her naked body, apart from glancing at Rosie when he saw the fresh red bruises and the old scars.
Rosie wanted to weep at seeing her friend like this, but she fetched towels and soaped Lorraine clean. Lorraine became subdued and listless, but she would not let go of the doll. Washed, with a clean nightdress on, she lay down on Rosie’s bed.
‘Best let her sleep it off,’ Jake said, and ushered Rosie out of the bedroom. They picked up the filthy clothes and tossed them into the trash-can. Lorraine fell into a deep, coma-like sleep, with no idea where she was.
Rosie checked on her throughout the night, in case she vomited and choked to death. Jake left, depressed, though it was hardly unexpected. He’d seen it all before with Rosie — but at least Lorraine had been easier to get up the stairs.
Rosie slept on the sofa. She was woken by Lorraine stumbling out of the bedroom. Her face looked pale green, and there were deep, dark rings beneath her eyes.
‘Coffee,’ was about the only word she could squeeze out. Her head felt like someone had attached a chunk of concrete to it, with a bolt hammered into her skull to keep it steady. She needed Rosie to help her back to bed, and she moaned in agony as she lay down. Ice packs were prepared, and gently Rosie rested them on her forehead. Lorraine slept for the remainder of the day, rising in the early evening for a shower. By then she was able to move around more easily. ‘What day is it?’
‘Wednesday evening.’
‘Wake me Friday.’ Lorraine gave a wan smile and lay down on the sofa.
Rosie shopped, using Lorraine’s hidden savings: she would tell her when the time was right, but she couldn’t work with Lorraine as she was, and the rent was due. So Rosie kept dipping in.
It was Friday before Lorraine’s hangover lifted. She was quiet, staring into space, unable to hold a conversation. Every time she attempted to explain herself, her voice trailed off mid-sentence. Rosie stroked her head. ‘Honey, you don’t have to explain, because I’ve been there. Just get better, then we can talk.’
Lorraine clasped her hand. ‘Thanks.’
Rosie smiled, dipped into the savings again and went out to buy some fillet steak: Lorraine needed her strength building up. She also paid the telephone bill, the electricity bill — dip, dip, dip — but she’d admit it when Lorraine was better. It wasn’t stealing, she told herself — what was hers was Lorraine’s, after all — it was just that, right now, she was short of cash.
At the weekend when Jake came round, Lorraine greeted him warmly.
He cocked his head to one side. ‘Back in the land of the living now, are we?’
Lorraine flushed. ‘Oh. Were you here?’
‘Who do you think carried you up the fuckin’ stairs? You really went for it, didn’t you?’
Lorraine gave him that odd lopsided, squint-eyed look. ‘Christ only knows what I went with — my crotch feels like I been sittin’ on hot coals.’
Jake turned away: he was never sure about her, she had a filthy mouth one minute, the next she came on like a real lady. ‘If I was you, I’d get down to a clinic and get checked out. You smelt like a sewer.’
She was unable to meet his steady gaze. At least she could still be ashamed, he thought, that was something in her favour. ‘Rosie’s been taking good care of you so you make sure you say thank you.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me to do that, Jake.’ Her voice was so husky he had to strain to hear what she said.
‘What?’
‘I said I’d go and have a medical, okay?’
‘Good. I suggest you come to a meeting, and keep on coming for a few days, unless you got to go to work. You still think you got work at the gallery? Only I passed it two days ago and it looked all shut up.’
She walked into the bedroom. ‘Soon as I feel fit enough I’ll be out looking for another job.’
Rosie banged open the screen door, her arms bulging with groceries. Jake took the loaded bags from her. ‘You’ve been spending a bit freely lately haven’t you?’
‘Let’s just say I got a bit of a windfall. Now, will you stay for dinner? I got fillet steak and salad and I’ll make jacket potatoes.’
Jake put the bags on the kitchen table. ‘Sounds good!’ He continued, whispering, ‘She should have herself checked out at a clinic.’
‘She’s only got a hangover, Jake.’
‘She could also have HIV, venereal disease and Christ only knows what else, so have her down to a clinic.’
Rosie looked towards the bedroom wondering if Lorraine had heard, then started unpacking the groceries.
Lorraine had heard, and rested back on Rosie’s bed. She was sober. She had little or no recollection of what she had done or where she had been. She dimly remembered stopping off in the cab, going to buy a can of Coke and coming out with two litres of vodka. She had a vague impression of having been thrown out of the same taxi, thumbing a lift from a trucker, and then — blank.
She sighed. Maybe it was better this way. She didn’t know why she was getting herself straightened out again. Now she knew she didn’t have anyone to do it for. She closed her eyes, making a silent decision that as soon as Rosie and Jake left the apartment, she’d pack up what she’d got, get her stash of money and go. Go and get so drunk she would never get sober again. Her resolution to blow it all — blow herself — made her feel light-hearted, and she sat up, wrapped her robe around her and went into the kitchen.
‘This smells so good. We having a party?’
Rooney looked round the tastefully furnished room, and at the pictures arrayed on a bookcase. Norman Hastings with his wife, Norman Hastings with his daughters, his dog, his car, Norman Hastings smiling. Norman Hastings the nice, ordinary husband and father. Rooney could smell baking, mixed with polish, or some kind of lavender room spray. He could hear Hastings’s dog out in the back yard with the kids, barking as the creaking swing swung backwards and forwards. The little girls were calling to the dog, to each other, and the sound of their voices added to the air of normality. The only thing missing was their father.