Chapter 18
‘Does anyone know what the recovery position is?’
‘Is it the one that comes after the doggy position?’ said Steve, expectantly looking around the room for a laugh that didn’t come. ‘I’m only trying to lighten the mood. If you can’t laugh, what can you do? That’s what I say.’
Luckily no one seemed too keen on joining Steve in the bants, because the St John’s Ambulance instructor could no more control a room than he could his own sweat glands. Dark patches bloomed on his shirt like ink on blotting paper. The cobwebs on the ceiling had more presence. But the mood today was sombre.
‘So, we use this position if they’re not responding, but are breathing normally.’
The instructor wasn’t breathing normally. He’d fetched a couple of large bags in five minutes before and the effort was still evident in the whistle of laboured breath through his nostrils. She hoped he didn’t keel over; you could no more put him in the recovery position than you could a lubed-up seal.
‘Simone, perhaps you can help me demonstrate?’
‘You want me to get on the floor?’ she said.
‘Is there a problem?’
The floor was grotty, and she was wearing a white broderie anglaise jumpsuit. Attaching the name sticker to it had been torture enough.
‘I think the last time that carpet saw a vacuum cleaner, it was being operated by a dinosaur.’
Steve laughed, which made her wish she hadn’t said it.
‘Can’t Steve do it? His tracksuit is wipe clean.’
He was wearing another shell suit combo. The St John’s guy took as deep a breath as he could manage.
‘It doesn’t matter who goes first,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be taking it in turns.’
Several pairs of eyes bore into her.
‘Fine. I’ll go first.’
By the time St John’s got round to the tilting her head back part, all dirt was forgotten in favour of hoping the growing beads of effort on his forehead didn’t break ranks onto her face. When Gayle told her she needed to attend that morning, she’d questioned her logic. She was only here for three weeks; she wasn’t going to be saving anyone. She had gotten a lecture about death rates in homeless services being significantly higher than for the general population. When she’d continued to whinge, Gayle threatened her with the kiss of life. At least it was better than cleaning windows, which is what she’d been doing all morning.
Once everyone had mastered the art of folding someone into the correct shape, they moved onto resuscitation. The bags that St John’s had brought in contained training mannequins.
‘Hey, it’s First Aid for Dummies,’ said Steve, with whom she’d been reluctantly partnered. ‘Get it? Like those books.’
Everyone roundly ignored him. They’d already learned not to engage for fear of inviting further conversational reprisals. She took in the pale face of the model, a male one, named Brayden. Its skin was the rubber of cheap dildos, and its pained face looked like one had been stuck up its arse. Not that it had an arse; it was entirely dismembered. Just a death mask and chest with LED lights embedded within, there to give real-time feedback on their resuscitation technique. St John’s asked the group to watch him demonstrate first.
‘Place the heel of one hand on the breastbone at the centre of the chest, your other on top, and then interlock your fingers.’
‘I spoke to Gayle,’ Steve whispered to her. ‘About you coming to the benefits office.’
‘Position your shoulders above your hands and, using your body weight, press straight down by five or six centimetres.’
‘Huh?’ she whispered back.
‘You promised to help me sort out my benefits.’
St John’s doll made a clicking sound. ‘That means you’re doing it correctly,’ he said.
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Simone.
‘It’s important you keep the compressions at 100 to 120 times per minute until an ambulance arrives.’
‘Yeah, you did,’ said Steve.
She hadn’t said she would go, just that she’d be able to sort it if she did go. He was trying to get her on a technicality.
‘Remember the Bee Gee’s “Staying Alive”,’ said St John’s. ‘That’s the rhythm you’re aiming for.’
As his dummy’s heart stuttered to life, the pink radiating around its chest, she had a sudden memory of watching ET with her dad. She hadn’t wanted to – she’d have been about ten, and the film would have been almost twenty years old by then – but he’d insisted. When the alien died, calcium-white and zipped into a clear body bag, she’d surprised them both by climbing into his arms to sob, as grief-stricken as Elliot. But then there was the merest hint of a glow, meaning ET’s family were coming and he was finally going home. She wondered if anyone had tried CPR on her dad when he’d collapsed.
‘I wouldn’t want “Staying Alive” to be the last thing I ever heard.’ She tried to clear the mental image of his suffering.
‘What would you go for?’ asked Steve.
‘If it was the choice between going to the benefits office with you, or a premature death, I’d opt for “Going Underground”.’
‘Hah! Top one.’
‘If you do this properly,’ said St John’s, ‘you can triple survival rates.’
The instructor went on to demonstrate mouth to mouth, or rescue breaths to give them their proper name, before inviting the group to practise for themselves. The whole thing was easier said than done. Steve attempted to get the circuit from heart to forehead to light for over five minutes, but even without any medical training, they knew it was time to call it a day. Near to collapse himself, given his boil-in-the-bag outfit of choice, Steve went to get some water. She was determined to do better, but Brayden’s face stayed resolutely pallid. Even with her lips firmly clamped across the doll’s, she just wasn’t getting the clicks that would tell her the lungs had been inflated correctly.
A pair of plimsolls came into view.
‘Ah, you make a lovely couple!’
She ran her gaze along the full length of the body attached to them. It was Jasper.
‘But I think you’re losing him,’ he said.
‘This one’s faulty.’
‘A bad workman always blames his resuscitation doll.’
‘I’m doing everything I was meant to.’
‘Have you thought about asking for help?’
‘I don’t know where the guy is. Probably on a scheduled shower break.’
She regretted the words as soon as she said them. She had no truck with St John’s or his weird bodily issues; she was just in a permanent sulk at the moment.
‘Be nice to Neil. He’s a good guy.’
‘Do those exist?’
She turned her full attention to Brayden’s chest, increasing the pressure and trying very hard to look competent. No joy. She gave it another go, but try as she might, she just couldn’t get the damned lights to create a complete circuit. She sensed Jasper above her, still there, still watching. His amusement at her fruitless struggle was practically audible. She glanced up and, sure enough, he was smirking. She got to her feet and despaired at the grey patches on her knees.
‘Tell you what, why don’t you have a go if you feel so confident?’
‘Okay.’ He knelt on the opposite side of the dummy. ‘Did you check the airways?’
‘Yes.’
He placed his index finger into the mannequin’s mouth with the gentleness you might use to fish something out of a child’s. ‘All clear.’
‘I know. I did it already.’
‘Then you tilt the head back.’ He gently cupped its chin and lifted it a little, as if it was made from porcelain, not plastic.
‘Yep. That too.’
He then pinched Brayden’s nose, taking great care that the heel of his hand didn’t touch the mannequin’s forehead. ‘And then you need to create a complete seal, so the air from your lungs goes directly into theirs.’
‘Oh really. You don’t say.’
Jasper lowered his lips to Brayden’s, his skin dark against the blanched nougat of the dummy’s. His jeans had ridden down slightly, and his top had ridden up, revealing another patch of smooth flesh. He glanced up to check that she was watching what he was doing. She was watching alright.
‘And then you blow.’ He blew slowly and deliberately into Brayden’s mouth. The dummy’s chest expanded steadily and made the requisite clicking sounds. Jasper repeated the breath. Brayden clicked his approval. He then interlocked his hands and started on Brayden’s chest. The lights stayed illuminated for the full thirty compressions he counted, cancelling out any enjoyment she might have gotten from how Jasper’s triceps popped with every downward push. Brayden looked mockingly up at her. Then Jasper did.
‘I did all of that.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
He deftly jumped to his feet. Brayden seemed sad to see him go.
‘Then I guess he just wasn’t that into you.’
He did a little what are you gonna do shrug. If she’d had hackles, they would have been up. Steve reappeared.
‘Hey, Steve. Did you tell Jasper that I’ve agreed to go to the benefits office with you?’
‘Have you?’
‘Yes. I have.’
‘I’m pretty certain you refused to?—’
‘Let this crazy situation continue,’ she said.
‘But you said you’d rather die than?—’
‘See you go without the money that you’re entitled to.’
Jasper cocked his head to one side. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really?’ asked Steve.
‘Yes, Steve.’ She kept her eyes on Jasper. ‘Because I am a smart woman.’
‘That’s great, though, because then I can?—’
‘Capable of handling whatever is thrown at me.’
‘It’s gonna be tricky but?—’
‘Perfectly adaptable to any situation.’
‘I don’t doubt it, mate, I reckon we should?—’
‘Regardless of what Jasper may think.’
‘Eh?’
Steve looked from Simone looking at Jasper, to Jasper looking at Simone. ‘Do you two need a minute?’
‘No need,’ said Jasper. ‘I have a session I need to prepare for. If you’ll excuse me.’
She watched him go. He hadn’t pulled his jeans back up, and the tops of his supermarket boxers were still showing.
‘I’m confused. Are we going to go?’ Steve’s daft eager eyes regarded her uncertainly.
She sighed. ‘Yes, Steve. We’re going to go.’
‘How did you get on with Brayden?’ Neil was at their side.
‘I let him die,’ she said. ‘Look at him; he’s got no quality of life.’
Neil chuckled nervously and said something about leaving it to the professionals to decide things like that, but she wasn’t really listening. Just not that into you. From anyone else it would have been funny.
‘I’ll take him back to the front myself, shall I?’ said Neil.
‘I’ll bring it up for you, mate,’ said Steve.
She needed to stop letting her emotions get the better of her. If she didn’t, who knows what she’d agree to next. She checked the time on her phone. It was ten to five. Screw it, she’d done everything that was asked of her today; she was going to find somewhere to hide and mindlessly scroll for a bit.
* * *
The bathrooms of Cedar Lodge were as depressing as the rest of the place. Knotted emergency cords hung like strings of clotted blood from the ceiling. Ribbed plastic handles spoke of age and infirmity. And the toilets, with their odd horseshoe seats, had been hung too high, meaning that as she’d caught up on the day’s developments, her legs had gone numb. Her jumpsuit top was scrunched on her lap, stopping it from falling onto a floor that already glistened with errant urine dribbles, even though she’d only mopped it yesterday.
Tony was still taking full advantage of her not being on holiday. He wanted her to pull together an intel file on a potential client. Not a problem though; no one was any the wiser about her absence, and it would give her something to do in the evenings until the girls returned.
There was a knock on the door. She ignored it.
The prospect was some big investor who, from first glance at least, seemed to own large slabs of London. The grapevine had it he wasn’t happy with his current agency, and Dickson Astley would almost certainly be on the pitch list if it went to tender.
The knock came again. More insistent. Whoever it was could go find another bathroom.
The guy’s name was Gerald Wolfe. Property tycoon. Multi-millionaire. Tax exile. It could be big. Really big. His profile pic on the corporate website gave him the appearance of a US gameshow host: tanned, coiffed and avuncular.
‘Can you hear me?’
She didn’t respond. She didn’t recognise the voice, but if it was another volunteer, she didn’t need them reporting to Gayle that she was hogging the bathroom when she should be helping with dinner.
Wolfe’s biography on the FT painted a less friendly picture with tales of staff intimidation and bullying – the usual litany of asshattery from the mega-rich. Still, she was prepared to ride those coat-tails if it meant she got promoted. She tapped out a message to Tony.
No problem. All over it.
And if the opportunity came in, she wanted to lead the response. There was no way she’d let Ollie get his hands on this.
It was nearly home time. She’d squeeze out another pee then head back and continue her investigations; perhaps tap up her network to see who might be connected to Wolfe in some way. Pitches were won and lost before you even presented.
The handle on the inside of the door turned then fell back into position. Someone was trying to get in. She tried to grab some tissue, but it was one of those stupid single-piece dispensers that made getting some as easy as dragging a flannel through a nipple. She got a tiny square with which she dabbed herself. It instantly soaked through and stuck to her fingers.
‘We’re going to have to break it,’ came a voice from the other side. Gayle’s.
Shit! She stood up, turned on the tap and rinsed the tissue off. She yanked up her pants, wiping her wet fingers on them as she went.
‘Ready?’ said Gayle.
She set about the jumpsuit, but the damned thing was as about as easy to get into as a fastened straitjacket when you’re already wearing a straitjacket.
‘Stand back.’
She had one arm and one boob in, the neckline bisecting the flesh-coloured mesh bra that provided support but absolutely no coverage, when the door flew open and Gayle fell in after it. She rushed to get the other arm in only to hear the sickening sound of cotton-sewn seams being forced beyond their stretching point. She also saw the sickening sight of Jasper standing behind Gayle.
‘For fucks sake!’ shouted Gayle. ‘I thought someone was dying in here!’
She was: inside. She continued to wrestle the jumpsuit until her second boob flopped into place like a defeated blancmange. Jasper backed away, eyes to the floor.
‘What the fuck, Gayle! I was having a wee. This is harassment!’
‘You weren’t answering.’
‘So? Is it so much to ask for a little privacy? What kind of lunatic would assume I was dying?’
The relief on Gayle’s face had been replaced with fury. ‘I didn’t know it was you. Anything could have happened.’
‘You can chill out. I’m fine.’
If you didn’t count the light grazing of the left breast and a ripped jumpsuit.
‘What were you doing?’ asked Gayle.
‘Urinating.’
‘Were you on your phone?’
‘No.’
‘Tell the truth.’
‘No!’
‘Christ’s sake, woman! Just a little bit of effort, that’s all I ask. You think you’re better than us because you’ve got a fancy job and fancy clothes? You think you’re a poppy in a field of wheat? You’re as exotic as a supermarket coffee!’ A little bit of spittle formed at the edge of Gayle’s mouth. ‘What were you really doing in here?’
She felt like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘Some research for my boss,’ she muttered.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Some research for my boss,’ she said louder.
‘Who’s your boss?’
‘His name’s?—’
‘Nuh-uh-uh.’ Gayle waved a finger at her. ‘Who is your boss right now? Go on, say it.’
She wasn’t going to say it.
‘Say it,’ said Gayle.
‘I’m not saying it.’
‘Say it!’
‘Fine. You’re my boss.’
‘Louder.’
‘Jesus, Gayle, this isn’t Jerry Maguire.’
‘Louder!’
‘You are my boss for the next three weeks.’
‘For you, it’s just three weeks of your life. For these people, it is their life. Come with me.’
Gayle grabbed her by the hand and led her down the corridor.
‘You like research, I’ll give you some research to do.’
They reached the office.
‘I’ll drown you in so much paper, you’re going to be shitting origami for a week.’ Gayle opened one of the filing cabinets and pulled out several folders. She threw them onto a desk and rifled through. ‘This is a good one. The NCH Report on Hate Crimes Against Homeless People.’ She thrust it at her. ‘How about this one? Homelessness as a Violation of Human Rights. Or this. Incidence of Sexual and Physical Abuse in Homeless Youth.’
Gayle continued to pass her reports with equally depressing names. They were getting heavy in her arms.
‘Okay, I get the picture.’
‘Do you? Because I don’t think you have the faintest idea of what the picture is. You’re so far from getting the picture, you’re like a blind person asking their guide dog to work out a magic eye poster!’ She rubbed her hands over her face. ‘Go home, Simone. And be grateful you have one. I’ve got work to do.’
Gayle left the office, passing Jasper in the doorway. Great. She was going to get a side helping of awkwardness to go with her post-being-undressed dressing-down. He couldn’t look her in the eye, even though moments before he’d been able to look her in the tit.
‘Er…’ he said to the space over her shoulder. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m sorry I saw what I saw.’
‘Was it that horrifying for you?’
‘No, I meant?—’
‘I don’t care what you meant. Do you know what? I don’t care about any of this. I’m off.’
‘For good?’
‘Yeah, why not. I’d rather go to prison than hang out here another day.’
She sounded like a petulant child, but Gayle was the one being unreasonable. As she glared up at the ceiling, its suspended polystyrene tiles browning at the edges like parchment, one of the reports slipped from her grip and onto the floor.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ She kicked the desk leg. Pain shot through her foot. Fucking sandals.
Jasper bent down and picked it up for her. He caught her gaze this time. ‘Simone.’ His voice was gentle.
‘Yes?’
‘I think you think that by not really trying, you somehow win.’
She tilted her head. ‘Oh really?’
‘But you don’t. It’s just that everyone else loses out.’
‘Did you get that from Psychological Claptrap magazine?!’
He gave her a bent smile. ‘I think it was Bullshit Therapy Today.’ He slid the errant report into the stack she was holding. ‘But that doesn’t make it any less true.’
She wanted to throw the reports in his face. He was so bloody measured, a perfect counterpoint to her fury. Instead she pushed past him, only to find Tasha hovering in the corridor.
‘Hey, look, it’s Wednesday Adams lurking in the shadows. Got something you wanted to add?’
Tasha was holding a couple of loosely scrunched-up plastic bags. ‘You might need these.’
She felt her nose prickle. Jesus, was she going to cry? Her eyes moistened. She took a deep breath and feigned a yawn that Tasha pretended not to notice for what it was. The girl held the bags open. She fed the papers in. By the time her arms were empty, she’d swallowed the worst of it.
‘Listen, I’m sorry about the Wednesday Adams thing.’
The girl gazed at her with complete equanimity and shrugged. ‘I’ve been called worse.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel better.’
The girl shrugged again.
She wondered how heavy the weight on Tasha’s shoulders would need to get before it was no longer possible to shrug it off. Best not to think about that.
She took the bags. ‘Sure you can spare them? That’s twenty pence worth.’
‘It’s nothing.’
But it wasn’t nothing. It was a kindness. And she had received so little in recent years, she’d forgotten what to do with them.
‘You can bring them back tomorrow,’ said Tasha.
She really didn’t want to come back tomorrow. Perhaps she might call in sick and get a doctor’s note. Or call her probation officer and ask to be transferred to a gig cleaning graffiti, or litter picking. Anything but having to walk back in here in the morning. She allowed herself a moment to consider the implications, but the one that overshadowed all others was the safe and certain knowledge that if she didn’t turn up, it would confirm Jasper’s suspicions about her. And the only thing more unbearable than sitting at home thinking about that smug look crossing his face was not being around to actually wipe it off.