Chapter 23
Leo
I’m half telling the truth.
I was in the canal, but no one tried to drown me.
I was trying to pick up a half-smoked fag butt from the floor, tripped over one of those boat tie things, a piece of concrete just sticking up from the fucking floor – cunty little things, those – and landed face first in the water.
That’s the stink she’s trying to pretend she can’t smell. The water. I swear people shit in it.
I’m a proper good swimmer, though, me.
In fact, when I was a kid, I went to a secondary school, and I shit you not, it had a pool.
It was dead posh for a state. I won a swimming award.
Fastest in the year at front crawl. Been fast since I was little.
Always quick. That’s what my nan said. And she was made up.
Chuffed as hell. She told all her mates.
Put the little silver plastic cup in her living room on her mantelpiece, then put her change in it, and every week gave it to me for sweets.
It was how I saved for my first ever baggie of weed.
Loved my nan.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Mandy says.
‘Not really.’
‘We could go to the police?’ she says. She sounds and looks completely terrified at her own idea, but knows it’s probably the right thing to say. ‘If someone tried to drown you, Leo...’
‘Will you be my sponsor?’
‘Your sponsor?’
‘Yeah, I need to get sober.’ I need to get in your house.
‘Slow down, Leo, we can get to that. As you know, I’m a therapist. And I’m concerned for your welfare. Take a few deep breaths and try and tell me what happened.’
Fucking mental, these people. Like a few deep breaths will solve it all.
She sounds like one of those meditation apps they tried to get me onto in rehab.
Next thing she’ll be telling me to do yoga.
She probably does it with all her mates, downward dogging every morning with their chai fucking lattes.
I could tell her a thing or two about dogging.
I look behind me, left and right. I need her to think I’m scared. Vulnerable. I make my voice all soft and quiet. She actually looks like she’s about to cry – like she’s the one who was nearly drowned in a canal. ‘I don’t know if I wanna talk about it here.’
I want to talk about it in your house. Where your jewellery is.
‘OK...’ she says. ‘OK, maybe we just sit in silence and breathe for a moment.’
Fuck my life.
She seems like she really wants me to breathe for a moment.
Fine.
She has her eyes closed. I think she’s humming. This is weird. This is very fucking weird but I guess I’ve done weirder things to get the moolah.
It’s going on for fucking ages.
‘Your hot chocolate.’
Thank God.
I look up to see a girl with a name badge that says CHLOE, looking a bit confused – probably from all the breathing happening – then passing me a mug with a mound of whipped cream and marshmallows on top.
‘Cheers, love,’ I say. ‘That looks bloody beautiful.’ She smiles.
I smile back. She keeps smiling. She’s got a gap in her teeth.
‘Could be a model, you,’ I say. ‘Billie Eilish vibes.’
She goes red. ‘I love her,’ she whispers.
Course she does.
‘Is that mine?’ Mandy says, all shitty, pointing to the coffee in Chloe’s other hand. Chloe places it down without looking at Mandy.
‘Your potato will be ready soon,’ Chloe tells me. ‘Do you want extra cheese?’
‘I don’t have any money—’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it for you.’
‘Well, that’s very kind, thank you, Chloe.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
Chloe turns and practically skips back to the counter. Mandy is staring at me.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
If I can’t get into her house, her car would be good. Her car keys must be in her little backpack. She’s got weird leather gloves on. And a bucket hat. Come to think of it, she looks a bit fucking odd. Not to judge. Just a bit charity-shop. But I think rich people do that. Try to look not-rich.
Her car would get me a good whack. But her house...
I could sell the fuck out of it. Get the fuck out of here.
Leave. Hide away in some rural British town, surrounded by fields where no one knows me.
Live in some nice hotel for a bit. Get strung out in a spa hotel, work out my next move in a sauna, wearing one of those robes and those fluffy slippers.
I lean towards Mandy and whisper, ‘I need help. And I’ll tell you what happened. But it’s not easy to say.’
She places her coffee down, frowning. ‘No, of course. I can imagine. Take your time. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. One moment.’ She leans down and starts rummaging through her bag. I scan for keys. Can’t see them. Then she comes back up with a pen and reaches for her notebook.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m going to take notes. Is that OK?’
‘Notes?’
‘I’m a therapist. I always take notes.’
Eugh.
I guess rich people need to feel useful somehow. I inhale slowly, like this is going to be tough. ‘OK. Fine.’
‘Take your time, Leo.’
I nod. ‘I was trying to dodge this man cos I nabbed his pipe.’
She starts scribbling. ‘His pipe?’
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of pipe?’
‘His meth pipe.’
She stops scribbling. ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ She stares at me.
‘I was gonna return it, I swear – and I thought he was fucking sleeping, but he’s one of those that never sleeps, just stays in a state of half-dead. You know the type?’
‘I mean... Sure. Yes.’
‘But he moved faster than I thought he would, and then he got his fucking blade out.’
‘Blade?’
‘Yeah,’ I whisper. She’s still not scribbling.
‘Was like one of those kitchen ones. You know. To cut onions and shit. Short, but dead sharp. Had it hidden in his sock.’ Her lips part a bit.
‘I tried to reason with him, but his eyes went black. The meth can make that happen you know. You must know this, right? Being a therapist an all?’
‘Um... Yes. I do. I do. Please, go on.’
‘Well, he then called out – and I realised he was shouting to his mates. They live there too – you know. Under the bridge. They make these little gangs you see. I don’t join them, I’m more of a lone ranger.
Anyway they kind of just appeared out of nowhere – from their sleeping bags lining the walls – and started to surround me.
I felt sick – didn’t know what to do...’ I make my voice go really, really quiet.
‘Dunno, Mandy – must be some kind of a trauma response from childhood. Fight, flight or freeze, innit. I tried to run away, but I froze. I wish I hadn’t.
I fucking wish I hadn’t. Cos next thing I know, the man lunged at me with the knife.
It went right past me – here.’ I point to a rip in the side of my hoodie where I snagged it trying to hurdle a metal fence once. ‘See how close that is?’
‘Jesus,’ she whispers. ‘Very close.’
‘The force of his body slamming into mine made me fall into the water. And I can’t...’ I put my head in my hands. ‘Sorry, this sounds so pathetic. But I can’t...’
‘It’s OK, Leo.’
‘I just feel so fucking stupid.’
‘You can’t swim?’
Bingo. ‘No.’
I suddenly feel tears in my eyes. It must be the comedown. Let them fall!
‘Oh, God, Leo. Don’t cry. I’m so sorry.’ I feel her place her weird, gloved hand on my forearm, right on my stinky shit-water sleeve.
Her jumper pulls back a bit, revealing a spenny-looking bracelet.
Tiffany’s. I know Tiffany’s. It’s got little pendant things hanging off it.
Her husband is rich, then. Maybe he has a city job.
A banker. Do they have kids? Doesn’t seem so.
Maybe they lost one. She’s clearly needing something or she wouldn’t be here. ‘How did you get out?’
‘I didn’t. He followed me in.’
‘What?’
‘I was trying to get up to the top to breathe and then his body was just next to me. And his hand. His hand went on the top of my head and started holding me under water for ages. Thought I was a fucking gonner. And he was laughing. And all those fucking mates of his were laughing. Saying no one would notice if I was gone.’
‘Oh my God—’
‘It was like he was enjoying it. Kept letting me come back up for air, saying, You’re dead, pussy. You’re gonna fucking die under this bridge...’
Her mouth is now fully open. ‘How did you get away?’
‘Kicked him in the nuts.’
‘Right – yes – that was a great – a great idea...’
‘Then managed to take hold of a rope that was lining the wall of the canal, dragged myself along it. Climbed out when I couldn’t see them anymore. Must have been dragging myself for about an hour—’
‘Jesus, Leo – that’s awful. They didn’t follow you?’
‘Dunno...’ I look at the door. ‘I mean, they might’ve.’
She turns to it herself, her eyes widening. ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t...’
‘The police won’t do anything. They never fucking do when it’s people like me. They don’t wanna get involved. They’ll say I’m lying. That there’s no proof.’
‘No. No. You’re right.’ I hear her relief. ‘So where will you stay now?’
In your spare room, Mandy? ‘Dunno, I haven’t thought it through. I’ll find somewhere.’
‘What about a shelter? Aren’t there any—’
‘Yeah. Yeah. I’ll find one.’ I pause. ‘Just need some fucking money.’
‘Are you on benefits?’
‘No address.’
‘Can you use your previous hostel?’
‘They won’t let me.’
‘Right.’
‘I want to get sober. I have to. I nearly died.’
‘Yes.’
‘I need all the help I can get.’
She leans back, taking all this in. All this stinky, fuck-head, addict mess.
Her eyes start darting from side to side, then she picks up her pen and starts scribbling away.
I try to read it. Can’t make out her handwriting, but I swear I see the word pussy.
She scratches the side of her head with the back of her pen.
‘So, will you be my sponsor?’
She looks up. ‘Hmm?’
‘You’ve done the twelve steps, haven’t you?’
‘Of course. Yes. But...’
‘But what then?’
‘They say it’s best for men to sponsor men, and women to sponsor women.’
They do say that. ‘Not if you’re gay.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That rule is there to stop you fucking your sponsor.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She goes red. Course she’s a prude. ‘That makes sense.’
‘And I don’t want to fuck you.’
‘Right, no.’
‘Definitely not.’
‘That’s good to know. Thank you, Leo.’
‘And I’m assuming you don’t want to fuck me?’ She pulls a face. Can’t hide her shock. Maybe she does though. I point to her wedding ring. ‘Happily married?’
She looks down at it. ‘Oh! Yes.’
‘So... Be of service? Help the newcomer? Go to any lengths? It’ll only help you too. They say that.’
‘Yes. They do.’ She nods. Starts twisting the ring with her fingers. ‘I’ll need to think about it.’
‘Ask God?’ I say.
‘God?’
‘Your Higher Power?’
‘Right. Yes.’ She looks a bit panicked.
‘What’s your Higher Power?’ I say.
‘Um... The sea.’
‘The sea. Cos it’s big?’
‘Right. Yes. And it’s...’ She pauses. ‘Enough about me, Leo.’
‘You said you’d help me.’
‘I feel I’m better suited to help you as a therapist.’
‘I can’t pay.’
‘I said you didn’t have to.’
‘What are we gonna talk about? If we’re not doing the twelve steps?’
She chews her lip for a moment. Then she goes back into her bag and pulls out another piece of paper with printed stuff all over it.
‘What’s that?’
‘A worksheet.’
‘A what?’
‘A worksheet.’
‘I’ve just nearly been murdered, mate, I dunno if a worksheet is gonna cut it.’
‘No?’
‘I’m not six.’
‘It’s helpful.’
‘How?’
‘It can help you figure out how you got to this point. If you want to get out of this, we need to look at why you got into it. The root cause.’
‘Sounds like something you cook with.’
She looks flustered. ‘Fine. I don’t even have to be your therapist, just someone offering you some support. But if you don’t want it – stay like this.’ She stands, suddenly different.
Careful.
Pushed it too far.
Stop pushing it.
‘Wait. Wait, please, Mandy. I’m messing. Let’s do your fucking worksheet. Please, sit back down. I wanna do it. I want your help. Really. And I’m grateful.’ She eyes me up and down. ‘Your gloves are nice,’ I say.
She softens. ‘Thank you.’
‘So if you’re not my sponsor or my therapist, what are you?’
She shrugs. ‘Best mate?’
‘Funny.’
‘Fag hag?’
Her mouth drops open. ‘Can you say that?’
‘Probably not. I like it though.’
A small smile flickers on her lips. She clearly likes it too. ‘Slay queen,’ she says.
‘Fucking hell,’ I say. ‘No. Abso-fucking-lutely not.’
‘Sorry, is it not OK to say that?’
‘Sure, if you’re seventeen, or a drag queen, which I assume you are neither?’
I mean, what do I know.
She could be.
She could be anything.
Because she’s not Mandy.
Her name is Mallory Maddox, and she’s an author.
Interesting, that. Innit?