Pat Barker - Noonday

“Oh, you were there, were you?”

“No, heard about it, though.”

“Oh, from Miss Pole, I suppose? I noticed she was there again.”

“Nothing to do with me. I believe she calls herself a ‘psychic investigator.’ ”

“She can call herself whatever the hell she likes, she’s still a twat.”

“Ah, Mrs. Mason, I have missed you.”

He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, twirling his hat, a battered trilby, round and round in nicotine-stained fingers. She could see dark stains on the sweatband. His trousers, stretched tight across his bony knees, were shiny, almost threadbare. He had such a seedy, lonely, hangdog look about him — put you in mind of rooms in lodging houses with cracked washbasins and fanny hairs on the bottom sheet. And yet he was a clever man — perhaps “clever” wasn’t the right word— fly, that was it. It occurred to her, suddenly, that he might be the Devil. In a long and varied career she’d met quite a lot of people who’d seen the Devil and what always impressed her about them was that they described him in exactly the same way — not so much the Prince of Darkness, more a commercial traveler down on his luck. She was reminded of the men you used to see after the last war, selling silk stockings door to door, twitching that much they could hardly count out the change.

She sat down on the bed, folded her arms across her breasts. “It’s not against the law.”

“Taking money under false pretenses is. And you’re not seriously claiming you talk to the dead, are you?”

She sat, mute.

“Pull the other one, it’s got bells on. No, Mrs. Mason, what you do is fraud. Fraud. ”

That word, it put her right back in the dock with that wretched little creep of a man telling everybody they’d got a doctor to examine her. “Every orifice,” he’d said. “Every orifice. And the rolls of fat on her belly.” He’d looked across at the jury and smirked. “You could hide a rat in there.”

She looked at Payne, who was also smirking. “I need the money.”

“You’ve got a job. Oh, no, sorry, you haven’t, have you? You got the sack. Well, get another one then.”

“Where? There aren’t any.”

“There’s always cleaning.”

“Too many houses boarded up, and besides it pays peanuts. Nobody could live on that.”

“Not with the gin and fags you get through.”

Bastard knew everything. “What am I supposed to have done this time?”

“Well, it’s more of an accumulation, really, isn’t it? The boy sailor from the Royal Oak ? And then there was that soldier on the beach at Dunkirk. No air cover. Remember that. And then last night the boy from the school.”

“What about him?”

“You said there were seven hundred dead.”

“ He said, and he didn’t say seven hundred, he just said ‘hundreds.’ ”

“The official figure’s seventy-three.”

“And do you know anybody who believes it? I don’t.”

“Look, it’s one thing to say it in private, it’s quite another to say it in public.”

“I don’t control what gets said.”

“ ’Course you bloody do!” He was leaning towards her again. “Look, Mrs. Mason, I’m going to say something that might surprise you — I don’t give a bugger where it comes from, you could be getting it all from the Devil for all I care, the point is: You can’t say it. ”

She caught a flicker in his eye. “This frightens you, doesn’t it?”

“ You frighten me. I think you’re a very stupid and very dangerous woman. And no, I don’t think you talk to the dead. I think you keep your ear to the ground, you ferret around for gossip and speculation and rumor and… Muck. And you spout it out without stopping to think about security or other people’s feelings or public morale or…or anything. Except money.”

“I tell the truth.”

“You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the arse. Do you know, I’d have more respect for you if you stood on a street corner and peddled your fanny.”

She was up on her feet now. “I think you’ve stayed quite long enough.”

“Think about it.”

“What, peddling me fanny?”

“No, keeping the other hole shut.”

She couldn’t look at him. At the door he paused and looked back. “Because if you don’t, it mightn’t be fraud next time. It might be witchcraft.”

“What you gunna do, burn me?”

“No, I’m serious. You think about it now.”

After he’d left, she waited a few minutes then went out onto the landing to check he’d really gone, and wasn’t still there, in the darkness, hiding. She was trembling all over — back in the dock, back in prison. They could do it. But not witchcraft — that didn’t make any sense. And it was all true, what she’d told him. She didn’t control what was said. Once Albert took over, the most she ever heard was a kind of echo.

She switched the light off, pulled the blackout curtains back and lay on the bed. Awkward shape, that window. They’d had one just like it in Newcastle. The night the bailiffs come and took every last stick of furniture, she’d lain on the floor, on a borrowed mattress — Howard snoring beside her — and seen a hand pressed hard against the glass. Her mam’s hand. She recognized it straight away from the scars on the palm, scars she’d got in the herring-gutting sheds in Seahouses. And she’d known straight away her mam had passed.

And she’d known something else too: that the dead came to her, sought her out, and there wasn’t a bloody thing she could do about it.

She needed to think, but when she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, she was back in the dock. Every orifice, he’d said, smirking. “ And the rolls of fat on her belly. You could hide a rat in there.” The faces in the courtroom had become a pink blur, she was back on the couch with her legs in stirrups, eyes shut, praying for Albert to come, but Albert didn’t come though she called and called for him. And when they let her sit up — take a breather, they said — she pushed them away and ran down into the street. Clinging to the railings, shouting and crying with the pins coming out of her hair and a woman in a fur coat come across to her and said, “What’s the matter, love? Are you all right?”

Of course, she had to go back in. Howard said it would look bad if she didn’t. So on it went: stomach, throat, nose, ears, fanny, arsehole, and yes, the rolls of fat on her belly. The least of her problems, that day…Howard sat outside in the waiting room. She went quiet towards the end, refusing to see the doctor’s face, the glint of glasses on his nose, refusing to feel the leather couch that made her back and thighs sweat, refusing to hear the chink of instruments in the bowl…And still Albert didn’t come.

But he was coming now. The room grew dim as she sank further and further into the hole that was opening up at the center of her being. At first she went slowly, but then faster and faster, swirling round, no longer able to see the window or feel the bed, down down down until at last the darkness covered her.

—

BERTHA CAME TO herself an hour later, with no sense of time having passed, though the square of sky in the window had faded from blue to white.

She was lying on the bed, though it seemed to have moved several feet across the floor. When she raised her head, she saw a chair lying on its side, plates and cups broken and a gray, sticky mess where the cod’s head had been stamped into the rug. Oh God. She didn’t blame Albert, not entirely, but didn’t he have a shred of common sense? Where was she going to find the money to buy new plates? And that rug was going to have to be thrown out. Of course he hated cod’s head, but so did she. Only, when Albert hated something, he went berserk. Always had done, probably always would. And of course, as per bloody usual, he left her to clear up the mess.