Maggie Gee - My Cleaner

She leads him to her study, and indicates, with an airy hand, her chair and desk. “It’s all ergonomic, of course,” she says. “Worth thinking about, once you have some money. Makes such a difference to one’s working day. Now sit yourself down and I will put the kettle on.”

“I don’t want tea,” he says, too vehemently, and sprawls on her turquoise futon sofa, though she had pointed him towards the armchair. “I have things to read to you, and things to show you.”

Vanessa remembers the annoying voice with which he reads, too loud and too slow. She really can’t put up with that now. “I think it would be best if you just give me an outline. Then we can discuss any problems you have, and I will read the whole thing in due course.” She sits on her typing chair, which means she looks down at him, and instantly begins to feel better. “Shoot,” she says, feeling brisk and powerful.

“It’s a short story. Called ‘Creative Fire’, but I think that might be a bit old·fashioned. I might call it ‘ Feu ‘, or ‘Liver’.”

“Liver?” says Vanessa, taken aback, but then, smiling, on automatic pilot, “very striking. Yes, much the best title of the three.”

“Do you remember you talked about using myth?” he says. He is sounding calmer now. “In our last class. You told us to make modern versions. Well, I researched Prometheus on the net. The guy who went and stole fire from the gods. I guess, in a way, this dude could be a writer. So I changed the name to ‘Metheus’. You get it, don’t you? Me, Metheus .”

“That’s good,” she says. On the screen, to her left, she can glimpse the text of her letter to Mary. She finds her mind is wandering.

“So Metheus needs to have creative fire. In the time of the Greeks I guess you couldn’t do drugs, so he goes and steals it from Mount Olympus. He writes two or three really big sellers, but then he gets caught by the father of the gods. Who is really, you know, just this dude’s Dad. And then of course Metheus gets punished.”

Vanessa starts to see where this is leading. After all the times she has told him not to!

“So his Dad gets Metheus staked out on the patio, with his liver being pecked by—” Something dawns on him. He looks at her anxiously, and finishes, “…his liver’s being pecked by a — rabbit . No, a rat.”

“You know perfectly well that it is an eagle. Everyone knows about Prometheus. I said to you, Derrick, please, no birds .”

But he ignores her, he rushes on by. “And then Metheus has to defend himself, and defend, you know, the creative spark, so he gets a knife, and kills the eagle.”

It is out. He looks at her, sweating, triumphant. “Do you like the way I have rounded it off?”

Some of them are totally unteachable. And yet he is a little too worked up for her liking. Vanessa decides she had better be tactful. “Derrick, I have said you must broaden your palette.”

“You didn’t like Metheus. You thought it was shit.” He is rummaging compulsively in his bag. Oh God, she thinks, he’s going to take it out and read it. Instead he drags out something big and heavy, wrapped in a cloth and puts it on the floor, beside the futon. “I’m serious,” he says, and unwraps a knife. It makes a heavy, clunking sound on the floorboards, a serious knife that could cut through bones, a butchery knife, a killing knife, not a silly knife in an invented story. The blade is long and very shiny. “I’m a serious artist. This inspires me. Remember you wanted us to show you the things that were important to our creativity.”

“I don’t like knives. Please put it away. And I think you should write another story.” Vanessa can hear herself talking on empty. What do you say to a boy with a knife? “I mean, this one has verve, and pace, and you have a beginning, middle and end—”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” he says. He moves forward on the futon so his knees touch her calves. His eyes are darting all round the room, his lips are working, smiling, nervous. And there is something strange about his breath.

“You’re like everyone else. You think I am mad. You’re just too cowardly to say so. It was obvious, when I read you my story about the chickens. You didn’t really like it at all. You didn’t understand the metaphor. You just pretended to encourage me. I trusted you. I respected you.”

“Let’s talk about this,” she says, but it’s hard, her breath is short, the words don’t sound right. “I do want to help you with your writing. First you must put that knife away. Perhaps I was a little too negative.”

“Well, are you sorry?” he demands, voice breaking, of everyone who has ever upset him, parents, policemen, therapists, teachers — stupid, lying, greasing teachers—

“Sorry, sorry,” Vanessa breathes.

And before she can react, he is kissing her, his large wet tongue pushing into her mouth and his thin hard hands grabbing her shoulders, and she falls sideways off the chair, so for a moment her mouth is uncovered, and she gasps, “Derrick, will you stop being silly,” before his fingers cover her face, he puts his whole hand over her face — They struggle, unsuccessfully, clumsily. Vanessa is fit from her exercises, her arms are sinewy, her calves are strong, but she is no match for a fit young man. He is saying, “What’s the matter, I just want to kiss you, I love you, you know, I really love you—” His mouth tastes horrible, of metal.

Then Vanessa thinks she hears a sound in the hall. Derrick has his back to the doorway of her study, but she’s facing it, and with a lurch of the heart, between the bars of his fingers, through her stretched, hurt lids, she sees the front door opening, a lifetime away, and the dark, solid figure of Mary coming through it—

Agonized, she watches it disappear again, Mary’s tired, everyday, unfrightened face, carrying her bags through into the kitchen, and at least it seems the boy has heard nothing, for he’s busy, dragging off his jacket with one hand while he holds her down on the floor with the other — but what really makes her cry out with pain is the moment he tries to change position and places one knee on top of her thigh, so his whole young weight bears down on her femur, and she grunts a stifled “No!” because she feels it is breaking—

And then her door bangs hard against a pile of books which knocks over another pile beside it, and they fall like thunder on the struggling couple as Mary pounds into the room. Derrick’s hand relaxes and the fingers peel off. Oh Mary, Mary , nostrils flared with fury—

“What are you doing?” Mary shouts like a man, her voice hoarse and strong, but she sees in an instant, she snatches up the knife and flings it hard across the room, out of reach, then hits the boy with the flat of her hand, a hand made hard by decades of work, once, twice across his bony temple, and he staggers off Vanessa, stunned, and then Mary punches him hard on the nose, and a rose of blood bursts out of the nostril, and then with a furious cry in Luganda, she knees him with brutal force in the balls.

He collapses forwards on to the carpet. Mary is holding him down by the neck. Vanessa staggers to her feet, but the leg Derrick knelt on does not seem to be working.

“We will call the police! Ono mubbi! Mutemul Stinking thief and murderer!” says Mary, panting. “You will sit on him, Vanessa, while I call the police. Did you steal my money?” she shouts at Derrick, but the blood is pouring from his nose, he is gathering himself, one hand over his face, and he pushes her off him and staggers from the room, no longer human, a wounded hyena, yelping angry, inaudible swear words, with Mary after him, she has him by one shoulder, she shouts, “Villain, villain!” and pulls his hair, but seconds later, he is through the front door while she aims one last kick at his legs, his bottom, and he crouches for a moment, winded, on the porch, with the garden path sunlit and ordinary behind him, framed by the door, which is gaping open on an everyday, astounded morning, and the rose leaves bob towards his face, his blood-stained, sorrowful, hurt child’s face.