Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

hanging from the wrists of a ghost. She fancies for a moment that she can hear voices. Dismisses it. She is a squatter here. A trespasser. She is dug in deep; a tick in a dog’s neck. Nobody knows she’s here, save for him. And he guards his privacy so very jealously.

Metal on metal.

The rushing of blood and the desperate, absolute need for this to go right …

The door swings open. He waddles in the way he always does, pushing out a lungful of air; knackered from the journey up the stairs. He’s a small man. Small, and round. Babyish, really, in his dimensions. Big head and fleshy limbs and a jolly round gut that he makes no effort to hide. Bald, save for the few strands of red he streaks across his gleaming red scalp. There’s a waxiness to him. A sheen, as if he has just scrubbed off his top layer of skin. Small, deep-set eyes, seemingly pushed deep into his skull by the same hand which grabbed a fistful of face and pulled out a fat, bulbous nose. There’s a harlequin pattern on his zip-up cardigan. A neat seam in his polyester trousers. Plastic sandals. He’s got carrier bags in his hands. Annabeth sees tins and biscuits, long-life milk. Baby wipes. Toothpaste. Sees the telltale outline of a large bottle of vodka and a box of Maltesers. This is the man who has saved her. The man who keeps her safe. The man who has done terrible things to her, but kept her safe from anything worse.

‘Walter,’ she says, breathily. She makes sure her smile is so wide and welcoming it could belong to a housewife in an old US sitcom. She wishes she could hand him a cocktail. Perhaps kiss his cheek. Wishes she could have prepared him dinner. She needs him to see past the girl he comes here once a week to feed and fuck.

‘Those bloody stairs,’ he grumbles, pushing into the room. ‘Be the death of me.’

‘I’m sorry …’

‘Not your fault, is it? What are you gonna do – carry me up?’

‘I could try,’ she smiles. ‘Stronger than I look.’

‘No you’re not. Little arms like yours? Like satsumas in a sock.’

‘Can I take your coat … I was hoping …’

He stops, still half in and half out of the room. He eyes her critically. ‘What’s this, then?’

‘What’s what, Walter?’

‘You look a bit … I dunno. A bit … plain, I suppose. Mumsy. Were you not expecting me? It’s Thursday, isn’t it? I always come on a Thursday.’ The jolly redness of his face darkens. He looks like uncooked beef. ‘What have you done to your lips? And where are your shoes …?’

Her heart starts to beat faster. She’s got it wrong. Made a mistake. Misjudged it horribly.

‘I can dress however you need; I just wanted to tell you something …’

He waves a hand, dismissively, and then turns back to the door. ‘Come away in, Mike. Don’t stand there shivering.’

Annabeth takes a step back. He’s never brought anybody with him. Has made her promise, time and again, that she will do all in her power to remain his secret. She clenches her fists. Remembers. A staircase in a little terraced house. A man she thought was her friend. The sudden, searing pain. The start of it all. Feels the hot, burning memory like a coal against her skin.

She watches as Walter shuffles out of the way. Mike has to stoop to make his way into the room. He’s tall. Too tall. Stringy with it. Long black coat and fawn trousers; jet-black hair and a thick black beard. He looks like a match burned down to the grip.

‘Here, love. This is Mike. Mike’s my pal. Sorry about the state of her, she’s obviously trying to make a point. You should see her in the high heels. Good calves on her. Proper little pit pony.’

Annabeth feels hummingbirds fighting in her chest. Feels light-headed. Guiltily, she glances at the bed. At her make-up. Lipstick. Mascara. Blusher. Nail varnish. A white plastic strip, laid across her nail file like a cross.

She looks at Walter. The thick mascara on her lashes makes her vision into a cage. She tries to make herself smile as she says it. ‘This is a bit unexpected. I thought we were supposed to be ultra-secretive, weren’t we? Not a peep, you said. Not a sound …’

‘This is what I have to deal with,’ says Walter, turning to his friend. He drops the shopping on the floor with a thump. Shakes his head. ‘Close the door, lad, you’re letting the smell out.’

Annabeth shoots a look at Mike. He seems a little shy, looking down at the floor like a bashful child receiving praise.

‘Not much of a greeting, is it?’ says Walter, churlishly. He dabs the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his cardigan. Leans against the wall. Glares a hole through Annabeth. ‘Expecting somebody else, were you? Some lad who likes the librarian look? What’s with the fucking cardigan?’

She twitches a smile, hoping he’ll think it girlish and sweet. Points at him, her finger and thumb a pistol. ‘You’re wearing a cardigan, Walter.’

He laughs at that: an unpleasant, snorting sort of a noise. ‘You’ve got some cheek, love. Some cheek to be waiting for me dressed like that. You know what I want. How this works …’

Annabeth takes a breath. Tries to calm herself. Makes her features soften. ‘I wanted to talk to you, that’s all. Wanted us to maybe chat about a few things.’

Walter’s eyebrows shoot up. He shakes his head, neck and chins wobbling. ‘Talk is it? And what do we have to talk about, girl? I give you a roof over your head. I feed you. I slip you a few quid as and when I can. And you keep your mouth shut apart from when I tell you to open it. Seems pretty straightforward to me, love. I mean, you can show me your workings-out, if you like.’

‘I’ll go,