I‘d forgotten her face. What do I need the face for? No bloody good to me. It gave me a jolt, seeing her like that. Buggered up the evening. She thought she’d get the better of me, sneaking up and putting that brooch down on the table in front of me. Thought she was being clever, catching me out. She said she’d been watching me, asked me if I wanted the brooch back. Damn stupid question—if I’d wanted it, I wouldn’t have given it to her in the first place, would I? But I know what her game is, coming after me like a bloody predator.
It gave me a laugh the way she swallowed that story about the cigarette card. Mathy’s sister’s picture came in handy too-nearly came a cropper over the name, mind you—should have thought to look what it was. But they’re all the bloody same. Thinking she could get one over on me…in that café, standing so close, unsettling me like that, teasing…crafty bitch. But I showed her, all right. She’ll write to old Mathy, and the letter’ll come back marked ‘Deceased’. That’ll shake her up. But I’ll write first. Make a date. Have to do something about it, or it’ll spoil things.
I’d decided on a redhead, but after the girl had gone I saw a brown-haired tart who looked a bit like her and wondered if I ought to have that, instead, but I didn’t see why I should change my plans just because of that stupid woman. She thought she could confuse me, put me off my stroke, but I showed her. I kept seeing the face, all the same.
I couldn’t think straight, and went and had a drink, then another, trying to decide what to do. My hands were shaking. Lucy. Bitch. I’ll teach her a lesson she won’t forget in a hurry.
I was so disgusted with the whole business, it was in my mind to pack it in and go back to Hornchurch there and then, when I saw the redhead coming towards me. If it had been any other colour hair I wouldn’t have been interested, but that made me think I ought to stick to my original plan. Brassy—obviously a tart—face glistening with paint, big red mouth, cheap perfume. She came and sat down beside me.
‘Are you lonely, dear? I’m lonely. I’d like a bit of company.’
I bought her a drink, and she told me she had a room, so off we went. She tried to tell me it was two pounds—thought I was born yesterday. Got her down to a pound and ten shillings, but the whole thing was a washout, right from the first: walking behind her up the stairs, I saw she had no stockings on, so that was no good. I hadn’t seen it before: white, floury legs, with freckles, great flanks under the clothes, thumping up the stairs like a carthorse. Made me think of Maisie, and I knew already that it wasn’t going to work, but I carried on—not sure why, I suppose by that time it seemed as good as anything else.
It was a dirty, stale room, all cluttered up with pictures of film stars in frames. She told me she knew them all.
I said, ‘Brought them back here, have you?’
She said it was in America—a likely story. When the siren went, she said, ‘You staying, or going?’
I said I’d stay, but I wanted to see her stockings.
She took her coat off, and her frock; standing under the bare bulb, doughy flesh hanging out of the underwear, hands—big and red, like a docker’s—on the hips. ‘Never mind that, let’s get on with it.’ She was tugging at my clothes as if I was some piece of meat, yanking off my greatcoat and jacket: ‘Come on, put a spurt on.’
I said, ‘Don’t you tell me what to do.’
‘Look, dear, we’re here for one thing, so let’s do it.’ Great blowsy thing, ordering me about.
I said, ‘Leave me alone, I don’t want this.’
‘Your choice, dear.’
She wouldn’t give the money back. I said, ‘Well, I’m not going without it.’
‘Too late now, dear. If you’re not interested, clear off and stop wasting my time.’
‘Don’t you talk to me like that!’
‘Oh, suit yourself.’ She just shrugged and picked up her frock. Turned her back on me as if I didn’t exist and started getting dressed.
I was damned if I was going to let her get away with it, so I said, ‘I’ll show you what’s what,’ and got hold of her round the neck. I must have got a handful of her hair, as well, because she screamed and clutched at it, and then she kicked me, hard, and her elbow jabbed into my stomach and I lost my grip and fell backwards on top of a table. It was a spindly thing, covered in these photographs, and when it broke they all crashed onto the floor. I landed on top of them, and when I looked up the woman was standing there staring down at me with her hands on top of her head and shouting, and then I looked at my hand and saw it was full of orange hair. For a moment, I thought I must have pulled it out, but then I saw it was rolled up in a pad and realised it wasn’t her hair at all, but some sort of piece she’d put on, to look like a redhead when she wasn’t anything of the kind. Her own hair was brown—thin, downy stuff, all uneven at the ends. I jumped up then, shouting that she was nothing but a cheat and a swindler, but she wouldn’t shut up, just kept on yelling back at me, calling me names, over and over…
I don’t remember much of how it happened after that, just making a grab for her legs. She must have lost her balance because she fell on the floor and I was on top of her. I had a piece of broken glass in my hand from one of the photographs and I was stabbing her with it and she kept on screaming, I could hear it over the noise of the bombers, and there was blood. I could see the blood, but I wasn’t really registering any of it; it was black and white, like a film, as if a part of my brain had just shut down. The drone of the bombers was getting louder and louder and her screams further and further away, and at some point I must have got up because I remember blundering round the room, knocking into things, and suddenly I couldn’t think why I was there or what I’d been doing, and still I could see no colour, but I could hear the bombers as if they were talking to me—Where are you, where are you, where are you… I shut my eyes and put my fingers in my ears to stop it, stop them coming to find me and kill me, and in my head I could hear Mathy screaming over the R/T, again and again.
When I came to, I found myself curled in the armchair with a cushion over my head, trying to block it out. I opened my eyes and the room flared up in front of me, in colour again, and I could see blood spattered across the wallpaper and the lino, and pooling out from underneath the body, which was splayed out on the floor on a bed of splintered wood and shards of glass. The dress was shredded, there were great gouges in the chest and belly, and blood lacing the arms and legs. It made me sick to look at it, so I caught up the bedspread and threw that on top of it, then I put on my jacket and greatcoat. I knew there must be some blood on my trousers, but I thought the coat would cover it well enough in the blackout, so I didn’t worry about that. The main thought in my mind was to get out of there as fast as I could and back to the base so I could forget it ever happened. It was safe outside in the dark, where no one could see, but the noise of the bombers was driving me mad; I had to get away from it…
The next part’s a bit of a blank. I know I walked a long way, then I was in a truck, then stumbling through the wood towards the edge of the base. I didn’t meet anyone. Numb with exhaustion, I only just managed to remember to take my clothes off in the bathroom, because of Ginger. Tiptoed back to the room and stuffed them into the back of my cupboard. No one’ll find them there. I’m down to one uniform, now. I’ll have to get another, which won’t be cheap.
Ginger was asleep. I wanted to sleep, too, but everything was whirling inside my head. All just bits: Mathy, the bombers, the girl, the redhead…my brain was snatching at thoughts but I couldn’t seem to keep hold of any of them; I kept dropping off and then jerking awake. If only there was a switch to flick and I could turn off the images inside my head, but every time I shut my eyes it was there, waiting.
I don’t know how long I lay there like that, but I must have fallen asleep at some point because I was dreaming. It was only on the surface of sleep, because I could remember it all: I’d lost control of the plane and we were falling, the stick was useless, she wouldn’t respond and I knew I had to bale out. I’d got the hood back and suddenly I found myself in the air and I couldn’t find the ripcord, I was falling and falling and the bloody thing just wasn’t there and then when I finally got it and I thought, that’s it, now I’ll be safe, I tried to tug it but my arm was too weak, it wouldn’t work, and all the time I was going through the air with the wind roaring in my ears and the ground getting closer and closer and I knew I was going to die—and then I jerked awake and Ginger was shouting at me, slapping me, trying to get me to wake up. I was clutching him in a total funk, shaking, so terrified I thought I was going to faint. I knew Ginger was talking to me but I couldn’t hear it, all I could hear was the wind rushing past my head and still, in my mind, I had flashes of the ground coming up towards me and it wouldn’t stop. Then something came up hard against my face—the impact like meeting the ground—and I realised it was Ginger, he’d hit me. His face was opposite mine and he was holding up his flask to my mouth—brandy—and it made me cough when I tried to swallow. I suppose that’s when I finally came to, and he was thumping me on the back, saying, ‘It’s a dream, only a dream…’
‘All right now?’
‘I think so. Thanks.’
Ginger shrugged. ‘Happens to everyone. What can’t you do, anyway?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What you were shouting—“I can’t”.’
‘Oh…the ripcord. Couldn’t find it.’
‘Nasty. But like I said, happens to everyone. Better not to think about it.’
I never used to have dreams like that. Marvellous, before. I used to look forward to them. I could do anything. Not at the mercy of it, like…like… Jesus, what’s happening to me? I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water, trying to pull myself together.
I went back to the room after that. Ginger was asleep again. I sat on the edge of the bed till Reilly came in with the tea. Couldn’t find a clean shirt so I thought I might as well put on my Irvine jacket over my pyjama top. My clothes were still bundled up in the cupboard where I left them last night, but I know they’ll be all right for a while—Reilly never looks in there. I’ll have to get rid of them eventually, though, in case they’re found. Got a clean pair of trousers, so that’s all right.
I sat down on the side of the bed again. Couldn’t seem to find the energy to stand up. When Ginger asked me how I was, I couldn’t reply—thought I’d burst into tears if I so much as opened my mouth. He didn’t press it, just emptied his flask of brandy into my tea.
When he left the room, I lay down again, but I couldn’t close my eyes. How long can anyone stay awake? Can I stay awake till the end? It can’t be long, now, I know that. It doesn’t feel so bad, just staring into the half-darkness. Maybe oblivion is like this: everything just draining away. Like a plane leaking coolant: knowing you’re in trouble, with nothing to do but pancake, if you can. I feel curiously detached from it. Like watching one of theirs go down. No emotions. No feeling at all.