Nobody ever knows where I am. I got here yesterday and its playing on my mind that they’ll cancel it again last minute. They seriously better not, coz that’ll be it, if I turn up to the court tomorrow for the first day of the inquest and find it’s been put back again. That could even wind up Dolly and one thing’s for sure there wouldn’t be much of the court left if the spirit of her emotional wreckage blasted in from the other side and went on the rampage.
This neck of the woods should be familiar to me, Maidstone in Kent. My Uncle Keith’s old cottage was in the vicinity. Just over the River Medway at East Farleigh. You had to cross this medieval bridge to get to his place. I’ve got this vision of that bridge, my old man standing there, staring, like he was stuck in some other time that I didn’t know about.
I never really knew him, my dad. I know who I think he was, because that’s me. A dreamer. I can see now that he was trying to hide the nightmares. It’s why he had to keep his distance.
One day he was painting a ceiling, head tilted back and then he was gone. Major stroke. He never really recovered.
There’s this weird thing when people die, you start to get to know them. See where they’re coming from. Maybe someone will know me when I’m dead.
There’s characters I can picture who played a part in my childhood. A few were prominent. A couple I could call friends. But they slipped from view. Other people will be them now.
Children don’t grow up. They step aside and allow strangers to take their place. And all that’s left are shadows of forgotten dreams...
There was a child whose place I must have taken. I have a vague memory of this little person. There are echoes of Bahrain in the middle east, Brighton in sussex and Mottingham, a suburb of south east London. Mottingham stuck for a while, a kind of no mans land, but not too far from the rolling green hills of the Kent countryside and the low, wooded clay weald beyond it. I can see my Uncle Keith pointing at his ordnance survey map, showing me how it made a horseshoe round another weald of high sandstone and silts, all wedged between the parallel chalk escarpments of the north and south downs.
When my brother Riley got a Raleigh Chopper for his birthday one year, I took him for a ride to Knole park. The mediaeval park with all the deer in it. We sat under a tree and munched our sarnies. Watched out for stags. It must have been summer because a wasp dived in my yogurt and when he surfaced we literally pissed ourselves coz there was a thick coat of white emulsion slapped all over his otherwise yellow and black mug. It was one of those moments that stuck. If it was today, we would have got a billion snaps of it. But I kind of like that image, free to come and go as it pleases. Some things are better left uncaptured.
‘Agggh’.
My head’s on the bar and my knuckles are digging in my temples. A jaggedness has arranged itself on my insides, sharp and shaped like two opposing flashes of forked lightening. I slide my whisky towards me and lift my head to take a sip.
A synthetic barbie doll is at the bar fiddling with her purse. I move away from her and take a look around the pub. The traditional oak beams are reassuring, as is the warm glow of the low hanging ceiling lamps, A real fire is roaring in the hearth in the room to the right of me. That’s what I need. I can’t do disco lights and big screens. There’s natural wooden floorboards and comfy velvet cushions on the seats. To the left is another room which adjoins the breakfast room and in between are stairs up to the boarding rooms. Mine has this cabin vibe. Neat, single wooden bunk, low ceiling, wooden joists and bookshelf.
I study the old fashioned signs hanging on the walls and my eyes settle on a vintage Pears Soap advert with a kid bathing in a barrel. I’m getting this flash of deja vu where I could swear I know this pub. I must have been here before. This very boozer. The Coach and Horses. The name rings a bell, now I think about it. If I’d played my cards right, I would know some bod this side of London I could stay with. But that’s as if. Like hell. Like there’s anyone, anywhere, in the whole of Gran Brittania I could stay with.
Stupid. Wanker. Shut it.
My head’s taking a blow and it’s shooting through my neck. I don’t get a chance to recover before my skull is stinging again, the second smack is more brutal.
‘Fuck you wank.’ I’m rigid. Trembling with the effort to reign it in. Waste of time though. The momentum’s got hold of me. I’m resounding under another whack. Then another one.
‘Fuck you, moron!’ My skull is sore. Neck’s aching too.
The synthetic barbie doll is glancing in my direction. Putting on a show of cool and casual. The look that says I’m not looking.
I’ve got my wayward arm by the wrist now, gripping it tight. That makes it awkward lifting my glass. The soreness is starting to spread around my right ear. My bum is raw too. This bar stool is one of those wicker ones. Too hard for my weaver’s bottom, sciatica, arthritis, tendonitis or whatever the fuck it is. It’s pointless asking a doctor. Over fifty, you can forget it, you’re dispensable, later alligator, don’t show yer face again to save the NHS.
I grab my glass and head for the nearest door. I need some air. Once outside, I gulp it down like I haven’t breathed all day. After depositing my glass safely on the ground, I turn to lean both hands against the front wall of the pub, so I’m not facing the road. I’m relieved nobody’s about. It’s starting to rain and I’m watching the odd spot hit the pavement by my feet.
I’ve given up smoking but I roll one anyhow, take a few puffs and stub it out. After that I go back inside coz I need a drink. I climb back on the same bar stool and dig a tenner out of my back pocket. Just as the barmaid’s about to register me, I get this waft of apple and cinnamon followed by a body reaching over me, making me flinch. Cold flesh is pushing against me.
‘Ughhh’. I turn away, my forearm swinging up to protect my head.
‘Ees usual in there sweet’eart.’
I have to shift to the side and I’m wincing, ready for the next hit. After a few moments, when there’s no more invasions, I recover enough to turn my head. All I can see is fake tan, properly tangoed with dyed black hair and volumes of cheap lipstick. She is holding an empty pint glass lined with spittle, all over. There’s acres of space the other side of her but she still picked on me. While she’s waiting on the barmaid, she’s twisting round and mailing a mouth only smile to a table in the corner. Not one wrinkle but she’s gotta be at least forty. Heels too high, and that’s having a massive impact on her shoulders, they’re way rounder than they need to be. Her legs are plastered in cheap art. Some faded, some fresh. My eyes are rolling back and my whole head’s following. When it returns I drain my glass.
Trailer trash. I curse myself straight away for that assumption. I don’t like it when people judge me by my appearance, and they do that all the time. For a moment a book from my childhood enters my consciousness. ‘The Water Babies’ by Charles Kingsley ...
Do as you would be done by ….
The Jameson’s starting to do its job. Adjusting the dimmer switch on my insides to a warm glow. I order another one and the barmaid slams it on the bar like I’ve asked her to donate her last fag or something. She’s got one of those brutally red faces, pocked and charred from a lifetime's worth a skivvyin. Her expression has ‘hard as nails’ engraved into it. She turns round and attacks the dishwasher and the jangling jars me . I feel like a woodlouse, being prodded. She’s acting like the draw of glasses is her sworn enemy. Yanking it practically off the runners. The glasses are screaming out in pain. I feel sorry for them. They could shatter any time. Poor bastards have done sod all to her, but she’s in some murderous mood.
The message is loud and clear. She don’t wanna be here.
I clock this settee free, not far from the open fire, so I grab it double quick. Especially since it’s freezing out. As soon as I’m sat down, I'm digging in my bag for the reports for tomorrow. I pull out some paper towels and dump them on the table. There’s this couple on the next table looking anywhere except at each other. While I’m digging down further into my bag, I catch the female half in the eye. She turns away quick to stare into the fire. You’d have to be blind not to see they could use some assistance.
‘Nice fire init.’ I know it’s a long shot, but I’m banking on one of them being the rare type who still has the capacity to pick up vocal sounds. Nothing, though. Not even a flicker of an eyelid. I up it a bit. 'Alright? Lovely fire init.'
She glances in my direction. Mousy hair, cream jumper, grey flannel skirt.
'Hm.’ She snorts it out, less like a reply and more like a random insult. I feel like a gnat that needs swatting. I can't help clocking she's got legs like the type you see on those solid oak coffee tables. Calves are that bloated I’m thinking possible diabetes but a horrible chance it could be elephantitis.
She's found her voice now. But only for the low life opposite her. I must have the magic touch. The wanker’s well limp. Slouched over his half empty pint. Counting dregs or something. You don’t have to do the maths to work out dregs have gotta be dead exciting compared to what’s sat opposite him.
Bouts of laughter are crashing around me. There’s a bunch of them standing in the middle of the bar. When anybody speaks, the whole lot laughs, on cue. It’s low threshold humour. The kind that Ant and Dec dish out on a Saturday night for braindead morons. After a whole lot more digging, I pull out the documents I need to read. It’s hard to focus coz that blue thing is settling down on the floor of my gut. The one that hates giving up his seat and does his best to make sure he’s your only company. The one that once you’ve let the miserable bastard in, he takes up lodgings and there’s piss all you can do about it.
I shuffle through the statements and find the first one I need for tomorrow. The name says Ayunde Engola. Mental health nurse.
.
Witness Statement of Aynunde Engola.
Mental Health Nurse
Radford Hospital, Aylesford, Maidstone, Kent
02/05/2015
Statement of Aynunde Engola following the death of Dolly Westerley (d.o.b. 21/10/85)
I, Aynunde Engola of Radford Hospital, Maidstone, Kent, will say as follows: I am a registered mental health nurse on Bickton Ward. This is a position I have held since 01/03/13. My job is to support the patients, monitor their physical and mental health, administer medications and fill in paperwork for the shift. I first met Ms. Westerley about two weeks after she was admitted. I was on a night shift. I had a brief chat with her in her room, introduced myself. She appeared settled so I had no concerns. Over the next few months I saw her, mostly to administer medication, or when she approached me to get her needs met ...
‘Approached’ is stretching it a bit. More like yelled, swore, spat at. Dolly’s needs were not ‘meetable’
She never held back on letting her contempt for the staff be on full view. Their usual come back is that abuse isn't part of the job, but it bloody well is. Some people have a right to be angry. Dolly didn't mean it personally. Not to any of them. But no bod should be locked up without a time frame. And the MOJ don’t exactly pull their finger out when it comes to responses. Their snail mail is not even fit for a snail. They should ditch Westminster for a disused cabbage patch.
… On the night of the 11th January 2015 I was on the night shift. Ms. Westerley was …
'You're joking!' I look up. One of them striking blonds with the deep, slit blue eye, no need for make up look, is spitting the contents of her mouth at the bloke opposite her. Her split second lapse of manners spells it out. He’s come out with something proper shock worthy. Going from his dreadlocks, white face and flower power shirt, I’m banking on it being something fully unthinkable like
How about we do Benidorm? Two weeks. All inclusive?’
I fix my eyes back on my papers.
I first met Dolly about two weeks after she was admitted. I was on a night shift …
I clench my teeth, harder than usual and suck cold air in under my tongue. You’re doing it again you asshole. Same lines over and over, no wonder it takes you months to read one pissing book.
‘For fuck’s sake’
My glass is scraping round in circles on the table and I’m squeezing it hard. I roll my eyes, shake my head, then throw it back and stare at the ceiling. When I come down, the redundant pair next to me are giving me dirty looks. Maybe they should try looking in the mirror. He looks like an out of date blaamonge and her hair looks like its been through a deep fat fryer.
This is your average hominini. Vile, fleshy bodies. No fur. Fat hanging out. Some of them even wear dead skin. Others wear coats made of toxic stuff called poly-this or poly- that crap. They eat food from factories which comes wrapped in more poly shit. Drink water out of toxic bottles, even when it’s raining, or they’re less than two foot from a riverbank. They wipe their little brat’s bums with synthesized pieces of shit which come in poison packets and throw them in the dung pit.
And they claim to be an intelligent species. As it goes, what a hominid calls intelligence is severely limited.
I sigh out loud and rest my gaze on the flames, flickering in the hearth.
It’s knackering being round animals like that. I can’t do it. I never could.
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