Cocaine and Shelley didn’t mix well, and the coke had been unkind to her on the Saturday night she’d spent with her client. Generally, a downer was required to counter the effects and at her client’s London townhouse, she hadn’t been able to take any. Now, four days after the job, she was still trying to reduce the paranoia with her ally, heroin, but by mixing up her hits with crack, the psychosis-bearing traitor, she was reducing the efficacy of the gear.
She was nearly out, and Jay was unable to deliver her next batch of brown and white. Apparently, he was waiting for a package. On a Wednesday – his busiest day – Shelley doubted that was the case. He was most likely up to something else, like getting his end away. Ajay – her back-up dealer – was also dry, though he was able to refer her to someone else who was holding. Now she had to go out because Ajay’s contact, Len, wouldn’t deliver to Hampstead. Len assured her that he had what she needed, but she had to go to his house in Ladbroke Grove. She imagined it would be safer to go to his place than to Camden to score from a stranger. Camden was fine for a few twenty bags, but she knew she couldn’t hand over five-hundred pounds to a stranger and expect them to come back.
After four days of not bathing or brushing her teeth, she could smell herself. Although she wanted a bath, she didn’t want to lie in her own dirty water. While the bath was running, she took a shower and washed her greasy hair until it squeaked clean. With a deep conditioning treatment left in, she pulled back her hair with a clamp then climbed into the bath.
She thought about the call she’d made to Aunt Elsie last week. Her aunt had sounded distant. Shelley wasn’t sure if it was because she was cross that she wasn’t visiting her or Rita as often as usual, or if it was something else. Also of concern was Nicole. When she’d last spoken to her, she’d seemed different. Shelley thought it was most likely the strain of the court case – she was being called in the next week. Shelley had asked Nicole if she’d heard from Marianne, but she hadn’t either. She’d been trying her every day and every time Marianne’s phone went straight to voicemail. Shelley had expressed her concern about holding off on their plan, but Nicole said she was pleased Marianne was probably still detained by the police, that it was only a taste of the comeuppance she had coming. Anyway, they couldn’t make their move until she’d testified, so at least something bad was happening to Marianne in the meantime. As Shelley tried to relax in the bubbles, she feared the police would be looking for her. She was convinced Marianne wouldn’t have been held this long unless it was for something serious.
Once she dragged herself out of the warm water, she brushed her teeth for ten minutes, hoping to counter the damage done to them during the last few days they’d been neglected. After dressing, styling her bob and applying her make-up, she sat on the sofa and made herself a shot – this time using only heroin, as it was all she had left and there was only enough for a minute hit.
She accomplished the checking quickly. Her heart wasn’t in it today. So what if the flat was burgled, flooded or went up in flames? She believed she had far bigger things to worry about.
***
Shelley ran to her car, escaping the rain spewing on her from the grey sky. Once out of the storm, she could hear the words ‘damaged goods’ slamming down on the windscreen. She popped out the Pablo Honey CD from its case and put it into the CD player. Her brother had bought her that Radiohead album not long before he died.
In an attempt to drown out the downpour, she cranked up the volume but her mind wasn’t silenced by the blast. Her grief, her anger, her fears, her lost hopes, and images, words and phrases painfully etched in her memory competed for attention.
Through her tears, she drove past St John’s Wood then into Maida Vale and up Elgin Avenue. She was nearly there and she knew she had to stop crying before she arrived. Taking deep breaths at a set of red traffic lights, she closed her eyes. She imagined herself with her family as they used to be, but it made her feel worse. Her insides felt like they were bleeding out.
As the lights turned green, she kicked down on the accelerator. The low car mounted the curb. She hit the footbrake, pulled the handbrake, then threw her torso over the steering wheel. She roared as if producing the noise would purge her of the pain inside.
After a while she stopped crying and screaming. She gradually edged off the curb. Driving on the road, she realised the car was dipping to the left. She pulled over again – carefully this time. Inspecting the passenger-side front tyre, she saw the deep cut. She didn’t know how to change a tyre, so she called the AA. She sat out the wait with Radiohead in the shelter of her car.
Shortly after the rain had stopped, the rescue man arrived. When her tyre had been replaced, she continued on her journey. Part-way down Ladbroke Grove, she turned off and after zigzagging a few times, she arrived at the house on Bracewell Road.
Although the sun had brightened the sky, when Shelley stepped out of the car, the cloud of impending doom hung heavy over her head – and its spawn that resided in the pit of her stomach made her aware of its presence.
It took her five minutes to check her car was locked. Her mind was consumed with worry that she hadn’t checked her flat properly. She might’ve forgotten to close the front door. She couldn’t remember closing it. She might’ve left a window open, a tap turned on, or left the oven, grill or hob on.
***
The front garden of the red-bricked terraced house was cluttered with discarded furniture, remnants of carpet and pots of paint. Shelley thought they might be redecorating, and when the door opened, it looked like a mammoth task. From what she could see down the long hall, the house was a wreck.
The skinny man, who Shelley placed at twenty-eight to thirty years old, led her into a lounge that coordinated with his own derelict appearance. His clothes were stained to rival Tara’s pyjamas, laden with the same brown spills – most likely coffee – and the off-white splashes that more closely resembled ejaculate than anything else that came to Shelley’s mind, especially as observed against the backdrop of his black, v-neck jumper.
“You got the dough, love?” he said, holding out his open palm in front of her.
“Have you got both?”
He nodded and scratched his hairy chin.
“Brown and white?” She waited for his response but he stared at her, blankly and with closed lips. “Can I have it then?” she asked.
“I’ll get it for you.” He averted his gaze to the ripped wallpaper and Shelley averted hers to his ripped jeans. Resident Scarecrow, Nicole would have probably called him. “I need to nip out to pick it up.”
“I’ll drive you,” she said eagerly.
“No need. It’s only a few houses down. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he told the loose hanging strips of wallpaper.
“I’ll come with you.”
“Nah, love. Can’t have you knowing where I keep my stash, can I?” He chuckled. Was he laughing at her or was that her paranoia? “Have you got the readies, then?”
“I’ll give it to you when you get back.”
“I have to take it now. I ain’t up to no thuggery or nothing,” he said, grinning. “My mate’s holding the parcel and he’s taking the money.” With a tattooed hand, he gestured to the armchair. “Have a pew.”
Shelley remained standing. The armchair, which was the only seat in the room, was smothered with lashings of pet hair and topped with what looked like either food or vomit. Although she hadn’t noticed any pets, the house smelt like one might have died. The stink was so rancid that the body odour she’d acquired from not bathing seemed like a delicate fragrance in comparison.
Reluctantly, she took out her purse and handed over the cash: five immaculately presented piles of twenty-pound notes, each totalling one-hundred pounds, the Queen’s head sideways on the note acting as the clip over the others which were flat with the Queen’s head upright.
As Len tucked the money into an inside pocket of his jacket, Shelley discreetly read the indigo letters across his knuckles. One set of four fingers spelled ‘L-U-C-K’, and the other, ‘F-A-T-E’.
“Laters,” he called out, slamming the front door behind him. The bang startled Shelley and as she flinched, she singed her hair with the flame from her Clipper lighter.
Smoking a cigarette, she paced the dual aspect room from the bay windows at the front to the patio doors at the back. She thought it strange that he hadn’t counted the money in front of her before he left – checking the cash in the presence of the buyer was protocol.
After ten minutes, she tried to convince the board that he might’ve got chatting to his friend. Another ten minutes passed and the board had convinced her that he’d run off with the money.
From her handbag, she took out her mobile and called Len. His phone went straight to voicemail a dozen or so times. So, she called the man responsible for making the introduction – her most unpunctual, skunk-smoking, slow-talking dealer – Ajay.
“He’s a business associate. I don’t know where you’ll find him,” he told Shelley.
“This is your fault. You have to get my money back.”
“This is your beef, not mine. I was doing you a favour, man, init?”
“Losing me five-hundred pounds is not doing me a fucking favour.” Shelley kicked the armchair. Several orange and green morsels fell off and landed on her trainers.
“Don’t be shouting at me now. You need to mellow, Shello, man.”
“I won’t be fucking mellow ’til I’ve got my motherfucking money back.”
Ajay didn’t reply. She looked at her phone. There was no call. He’d hung up.
***
Thirty minutes had passed and still Len hadn’t returned. She told herself another half-hour then she’d have to leave, go to a cashpoint and score in Camden.
Wandering through the house, she looked for money she could take to make up for the cash that had been taken from her. Her ransacking of the place was barely noticeable as every room looked like it had already been burgled.
In an upstairs bedroom, she emptied the contents of a rickety chest of drawers onto the floor. From the heap of dirty clothes, men’s toiletries and scraps of paper, a box of two-hundred cigarettes emerged. At least they were Benson and Hedges. But five-hundred pounds for a box of two-hundred Bensons was hardly a good deal.
Continuing her search, she crawled under the double bed. As she shoved around and hurled the lids from the shoeboxes that lay there, the dust caused her to sneeze. It caught in her throat and she choked. In one of the shoeboxes, she found a pair of Nike trainers. Although they had no value to her, she imagined the thief wouldn’t be happy if they went missing.
When she stood up, she brushed the dust from her jeans and sweatshirt, and shook out her hair. She flung open the wardrobe and flicked through the hangers of clothes. The only item she could find worth taking was a pair of new-looking Levi 501s. Again, of no use to her – they weren’t her size – but at least the crook would miss them.
Having searched the other three bedrooms and found nothing worth taking, she returned to the room with the men’s toiletries and clothes. She was certain it was Len’s room.
The mattress was soiled with a variety of stains. Some were recognisable as blood, and the rest, quite possibly urine, faeces and food. She wrapped the long sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands. She took a deep breath and held it while raising one side of the double mattress and flipping it over. The mattress banged against the windowsill as it landed upright on the floor, wedged between the sill and the wooden bed frame.
There was nothing to be seen on the slatted bed frame except for more stains and dust. The dust revisited her throat. She gasped for breath. Coughing and spluttering, she staggered around the bed frame towards the mattress by the window.
Trying to resist her gag reflex, she felt around the mattress for gaps. Something hard was inside but she couldn’t find an opening. She took out her keys and stabbed the corner of the mattress near where she imagined the package of drugs or money was hidden. Once she’d made an incision, she used her key to slash along the mattress. She covered her hand with her sleeve and delved into the laceration she’d created.
Her heart sunk as she gazed at the handgun she’d dropped onto the coffee-spattered carpet. Though she knew the thief would miss it, she also knew she couldn’t take it. The gun might have been used for a crime and she couldn’t have it in her possession. At the board meeting, some disputed her rationale, but she knew they’d only change their minds later if she did take it. They kept her hovering over the gun, goading her to put it in her handbag, but she didn’t.
Protecting her hand with her sleeve, she put it back where she’d found it. Then she pushed her body between the mattress and the windowsill, and lifted the bottom of the mattress to slide it back along the slats.
Before she left the room, she pulled the only poster off the wall – a picture of an alien with the sentence, ‘Take me to your dealer’. It wasn’t a sensible place to be asking that.
With the Blu-Tack from the poster in her handbag, and the cigarettes, trainers and jeans tucked under her arm, she went to the front door. The door didn’t open. Frantically, she pulled at it but it wouldn’t budge. It was locked. She rushed through to the back of the house and tried the patio doors. She was locked in.
***
Every window she tried in the downstairs and upstairs of the house was nailed shut. She needed to find another way out, but she was wary of breaking glass in case a neighbour heard and called the police.
Under the stairs, she noticed a small door, which she expected led to a basement but she hoped might also lead to an exit. She couldn’t remember seeing a garage or a lower level to the house when she arrived, but she had been inattentive with her mind focused on scoring.
She tried the small, gold handle but the door was stuck. Using all her strength, she yanked it towards her. Putrid air rushed out to greet her. Despite retching, she climbed down the narrow staircase and entered the dark room. She felt her way to a light switch. A single bulb lit up the damp cellar. It was completely bricked in.
She sprinted back up the creaking stairs and rushed out the cellar door straight across into the pestiferous kitchen. The slimy vinyl caused her to skid and she fell. Pushing herself up from the floor, she felt the stickiness on her hands. While the taps ran, she searched for something to clean them with. Soap or washing up liquid would have been ideal but she couldn’t find anything, not one bottle of detergent. In the absence of a cleaning agent, she rinsed her hands under the hot tap, wincing as the water scorched them.
Having dried her hands on her sweatshirt, she pulled open all the kitchen drawers until she found the cutlery. She took a knife, a fork and a spoon and returned to the front door. She tried with each utensil to use them as a lever to open the door, but the cutlery didn’t work. The gap between the door and the frame was too narrow and too short to get leverage.
Deflated, she tramped through to the patio doors at the rear of the lounge where she tried with the cutlery. First she used the knife but, as that had been misshaped during her attempt at the front door, it didn’t work.
Before she went to get another, she tried with the fork, pushing it in the gap where the two glass-panelled doors met. The fork was too curved to fit right through, although she noticed the doors moved slightly when she jiggled it. There was no point in trying the spoon; the fork was too curved, and she could tell that the handle of the spoon would be too fat.
Back in the kitchen, she rummaged for a long-bladed knife. In a drawer housing an abundant supply of every imaginable kitchen utensil, she found three. She took her finds into the lounge and laid the blades on the grimy carpet by the back doors.
The first knife she managed to get right through the gap, but it wasn’t strong enough to pull the doors apart. She put another knife farther down, below the lock that held the doors together. That knife also went right through the gap.
For about five minutes, she twisted and pulled on the knives, causing the doors to rattle as they jarred back and forth. The lock was still holding the doors together but the gap between the doors was increasing with each pull. She moved the knives closer to the lock: one just above and the other just below. With all her strength, she pulled with the knives angled in opposing directions. The doors opened inwards. With her handbag over her shoulder, she picked up the swag and walked into the garden.
She looked around for a way out but the garden was fenced in. There were no side exits. Of course, it was a terraced house, she remembered. She stepped up on the low wall that bordered the patio and looked over the fences on either side. All she could see were rows of more fences.
She ran to the rear of the garden to see if there was a way out of the back. There was nothing to stand on that allowed her to see over the fence, unless she climbed a tree. She was not in the mood for tree climbing. The only thing she wanted to do was get out and get her drugs.
Heading back towards the patio, she heard voices from the garden next door. She approached the fence and pulled herself up, clinging to the rough wood with her hands.
“Excuse me, please,” she said, with her head peeping over the fence. “My boyfriend’s locked me in by accident. Would you be able to help me get out, please?”
“Oh, you poor thing,” said a grey-haired lady from next door.
Shelley began to cry.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. My husband’s gone to get the ladders. We’ll have you out in no time.”
Shelley jumped down and examined her hands for splinters. Within a few seconds, a ladder was being passed over the top of the fence.
“Thank you so much,” Shelley said, reaching up and taking the silver ladder. She opened it and set it on the grass, next to the fence. As she stood on the platform at the top – about six-feet high – she stalled, unsure if she could manage the jump down into the next-door neighbour’s garden.
“Come on, love, it’s okay, I’ll catch you.” The old man from next door opened his arms in front of her.
Shelley threw over the jeans, trainers and cigarettes. She leapt in his direction and he caught her. As he steadied her to stand on the grass, she started crying again.
“You know we hear how he talks to you, sweetheart. You really shouldn’t stand for it.” The lady put her arm over Shelley’s shoulder. “There, there, it’ll be all right,” she said, patting Shelley on the back. “Come on, I’ll take you out.”
Shelley picked up the swag from the grass and followed the lady through her house. The decor reminded her of Aunt Elsie’s and part of her wanted to stop there for a cup of tea.
“Thank you ever so much.” Shelley stood on the doorstep. “You’ve been so kind. I really appreciate it.”
“That’s no bother, sweetheart.” The lady smiled. “Don’t you go back to him now. A lovely girl like you needs to set her standards, you hear me, and higher than him.”