No one responded to the knocking on the red door concealed behind an overgrown hedge at the top of Hammers Lane in Mill Hill.
“Mum, open the door.” Shelley looked up to the bedroom window of the first floor maisonette. “Let me in.” She saw the curtains move and knew her mother was home. Although that was really a given as her mother hadn’t been out in months. “I know you’re up there. I can see you.”
Shelley had a key to her mother’s maisonette but she preferred her to open the door. If Rita got up to answer the door, she would at least get out of bed. If Shelley used her own key, the chance of that happening was drastically reduced.
A few moments passed and the door opened. Shelley stepped inside the hall. Her scrawny mother stood in her ankle-length dressing gown, slightly hunched and with her head low.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come in the week.” Shelley hugged her mother, hiding tears of guilt.
Taking her mother’s arm, she guided her up the stairs and into the lounge. The curtains were still drawn. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. Shelley pulled them open, letting in the day. The dark lounge transformed into a brighter one, but now the disorder was exposed.
Papers, files and books were scattered everywhere: on the dining table, on the chairs, by the gas fire and on the windowsill. Shelley removed a pile of pink and blue files from the three-seater and directed her mother to sit down.
In the kitchen, Shelley put on the kettle and waiting for it to boil, she washed up the collection of dirty mugs and plates that had accumulated in the sink. She brought her mother a cup of tea in the lounge, then she returned to the kitchen to make her a sandwich. Fortunately, there were still ample supplies left over from the shop Shelley did for her last Friday.
With shoulders slumped, Rita sat next to Shelley on the pale-grey settee. In slow motion, she nibbled her sandwich.
“How are you feeling?” Shelley asked.
“I’m trying not to, dear.” Rita put her plate with the barely-touched sandwich on the end table.
“I’m going to Will’s grave. Do you think you’re up to it to come with me?” Shelley took out a comb from her cream handbag.
“What about work? Don’t you have to get back?”
“They’re letting some of us go early on Fridays. It was my turn. Will you come?”
“No dear, you know I can’t. Not at the moment.”
Shelley leant across and gently ran the comb through Rita’s long, grey hair. “I’ll sit with you for a while before I go.”
***
Crime of the Century boomed from the nearly blown speakers in Shelley’s Mercedes as she raced up East Finchley High Road. Arriving at the cemetery car park, she lifted the pink carnations from the passenger seat. The coldness of the cemetery air hit her as she opened the door. It always felt colder inside the graveyard.
She walked around her car, counting aloud to five each time she tried a door handle, ran her fingers along the top of a window, and depressed the catch on the boot. What could have been accomplished in twenty-five counts – less than as many seconds – took a few minutes.
On reaching William’s grave, she sat down on the ground next to him. She spoke to him quietly. She told him of her plans to go to university, her fears that it might not happen, her dinner with Aunt Elsie and her visit with their mother.
Shelley never spoke to William about work – neither her non-existent job at Foxtons, nor what she really did. So she didn’t tell him what happened at The Lanesborough after her visit with him last Friday. She knew he wouldn’t judge her, but she didn’t want him to worry about her from up in heaven. She wasn’t sure if he only knew what she told him or if he saw everything. If he did, he’d already know what happened. In a way, she hoped he was looking out for her, keeping her safe. But in another, she hoped he wasn’t, so he didn’t have to see how she was living.
Heading back to the car park, she stopped at the double grave of her grandparents. Her mother’s parents died before she’d been able to really know them. Shelley was only three years old in 1978 – the year a drunk driver crashed into their Morris Minor on the M1.
Her maternal grandparents were the only grandparents she’d ever known, and the only grandparents she shared with William. Like Shelley, William’s father wasn’t in his life, although he was back and forth for the first year or so after William was born. After that, his full time job took precedence – alcoholism. William had also known some of his family. Shelley had never met anyone on her father’s side, not even the man himself. Apparently, he had his reasons, one of which was being married.
Back in her car, Shelley locked herself in. She put the Supertramp CD on shuffle. From the glove box, she took out the dessert spoon, citric acid powder, gear and her works. Using the water from the bottle kept in the car, she began cooking up a fix.
She sensed someone’s presence and looked out her window. A tall man, dressed in a shell suit, with a hat covering a third of his face, was staring at her from the other side of the car park. She recognised him. She’d seen him in the cemetery before. He gave her the creeps. The way he loitered and the way he watched her. Apart from him, the graveyard was nearly always deserted. She rarely saw another living soul whenever she was there and that’s how she preferred it.
Once he’d gone, she felt safe to carry on. To be inconspicuous, she bent over with her head down in the footwell. Using a rag conveniently kept in the car, she constricted the blood flow at her ankle. The veins in her feet were thin and easy to burst. She knew she risked losing the hit. Only the other week, she’d caused tissuing in a vein on the same foot. The resulting lump wouldn’t massage away. It had given her pain, and restricted her choice of footwear, until it left of its own accord.
Selecting a barely visible vein in which to inject, she slid in the needle. The thrill began as she watched the blood infiltrate the barrel. She pushed in the plunger a little, releasing some of the junk into her bloodstream. Then she pulled out to watch more blood percolate. The next time she pushed a fraction too forcefully. The vein was blown.
She tried to rescue what was left in the syringe, but the blood was congealing. Holding the plastic tube in the air, she flicked it to release the air bubbles. Impetuously, she thrust the needle into her arm. Most of the heroin and coagulated blood had entered her body. However, not all of it went in via the vein. In addition to the new swelling on her foot, she now had another on the inside of her elbow. Of greatest distress was that most of the hit had been wasted. The rush was negligible.
On the drive home, she cranked up the volume. The song that started to play was one that reminded her most of William. She’d heard him sing it countless times in the days he gigged with his band in the pubs around North London. He sang his own version in what he’d described was a blend of punk, ska and reggae.
She part-sung and part-sobbed through Hide in Your Shell. She shivered, feeling William’s presence. Her tears stopped as he sang to her, “Why don’t you listen? You can trust me.” It sounded as if he was sitting next to her in the passenger seat.