Deborah Levy - Billy and Girl

There she is, knocking on the door dressed in her orange ankle boots and matching orange mohair miniskirt her new friend has given her. Louise is changing on a daily basis. Wears her hair up now, little heart and butterfly clips all over her blondness, even painted her fingernails orange — which Mr Tens gave her a lecture about. Mr Tens the Christian. Danny knows him because they were at school together. Titchy Tens was in the sixth form when he was just a second-year learning how to smoke in the toilets. Even then Terry Tens had started the Christian club. ‘Oh, come o-n, Ter-ry, oh, co-me o-n, Te-r-ry, if you’re a ten take down your drawers and prove it, oh, come and adore it, oh, come and adore it.’

Yeah, she’s gone in now. Some bloke in a lumberjack shirt opened the door.

Mr England. Handsome. A big man in a checked shirt. The kind of shirt healthy men wear in the cigarette ads. He still had his hair. Styled like a rocker, greased back with long sideburns. Said he was trying out a new product called Bíre d’Alsace. A full-flavoured premium-quality lager. A charmer who had to lean against walls on account of his enthusiasm for the new product. Banging into the corridor walls, smearing his hair grease over the cheery sunflower wallpaper.

What did she want? Louise felt the right side of all right because she had nothing to lose. Except the love of her mother and she had already risked that when she broke faith. Nothing left apart from that. Nothing makes you reckless. She just fucking barged in. He followed her. Walking straight into the lounge room with its TV blaring and empty bottles strewn on the immaculately hoovered carpet. Apart from the bottles the place was spotless. A tatty Elvis poster above the mantelpiece. Elvis when he was old and fat, groaning into the mike. Mr England pointing his beer bottle at the TV screen. Said he liked watching the American chat shows. Could always tell which audience member was going to do something outrageous like take their clothes off for the studio cameras.

Yep, he’s been watching a lot of TV recently. Funny how the most popular presenters put the audience down — he especially enjoys it when they put the guest celebrities ‘in a tight corner. Celebrities are just tanned targets in nice clothes, aren’t they?’

So how does Mr England identify the lone crazy in the studio then? Oh, just a little talent of his. Louise with her blue eyes. Blue for danger. ‘So what do you think I am going to do next then, Mr England?’

He opens another bottle of his d’Alsace beer and takes in her orange mohair body. The cute little clips in her hair. ‘I used to meet girls like you when I drove lorries.’ He’s trying to keep himself together, distracted but half enjoying himself, not got the strength to chuck her out. Oh, yeah? And what were the girls like? Oh, (making his voice amused) they used to admire the big teddy bear he hung on the roof of his vehicle, it was his good-luck motif, every trucker had something for luck. Some of the girls used to take the teddy bear down and cuddle it. They just wanted something to cuddle, didn’t they?

‘Oh, yeah?’ Well, she doesn’t like teddy bears, does she? Their glass eyes freak her out. Their nylon fur makes her sneeze. The little stitched-on paws make her cry for no good reason. So how else is she like the girls he gave lifts to?

The big man hides his face in his beer. Forget it. Was a long time ago. It’s history now. Would she like some cheese on toast?

Yeah, she would. That would do her fine, as it happens. Been a long journey. No, she won’t wait in the front room, she’ll talk to him in the kitchen while he makes her that little snack. By the way, her name is Louise.

That information stopped him in his tracks. Zigzag tracks of electrified wire volting through him. Sizzling him. Singeing his eyebrows. ‘Did you say Louise?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Louise.’ He straightens up a bit. Tries to say something but he can’t. Just staring into the d’Alsace label on the bottle. Stands completely still and silent. His eyes full of terror and beer tears. ‘I’ve not got any bread.’

‘Well, don’t fucking offer me cheese on toast then.’

Mr England walks back to the front room, banging his head on the door. ‘Sometimes I cook up a feast. Know what that is, Louise?’

Louise shakes her head. Glad the TV is on. Something to look at so she doesn’t have to stare at him all the time.

‘I fry myself a bit of road rat.’ He points at a gormless bloke on the TV. ‘Him, you see him, the one in the Pizza Hut T-shirt? He’s going to take off his kit any minute. I bet you a tenner he’s going to streak right in front of the cameras.’

The magnified image of the TV man. Blowing his nose into a king-sized handkerchief. Not a looker like Mr England with his hairstyle and well-pressed shirt. ‘Sometimes I cook myself a cheeseburger just like Elvis’s cook used to make him. See, Louise, every Elvis song is about loss.’ The Pizza Hut bloke jumps up and his trousers fall round his ankles.

Louise stands right in front of the television. Time for the facts.

‘I’ve come for my share of the money.’

‘What money?’

‘The money Billy and Girl gave you.’

Mr England looks amazed. ‘What’s it to do with you?’

‘They got it from my till, see. Express.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah. It is fucking right, Mr England. So give me two hundred quid and I’ll go.’

He’s sobering up now. ‘I don’t know anything about your till or whatever. I sold them a car. You got to get the money off them.’

‘Naaaaa. You took it all, didn’t you? Took the whole fucking lot off your kids.’

DONT FUCK ABOUT. PUT THE NOTES ON THE TABLE.

Mr England is staring at her moist-eyed now. ‘I ain’t got nothin’ for ya,’ he croons in a good ol’ Southern boy voice, unbuttoning his healthy man shirt. Revealing a spotless white vest. ‘I haven’t got any of the money. It’s gone. I had a few debts, Louise.’

Throwing the shirt on the carpet over the bottles. Taking off his vest. Turned away from her so she can only see the slack muscles turned to fat. A broad back. Turning towards her now. Full of self-exhaustion, the world-weariness of an ex-heart-throb.

Dad is just a hole. He hasn’t got a chest. Putting his face close to hers. She can see the scars on his face now. His face has been built up. Layers of skin taken from his chest and put on his face. Layers of skin scraped from his chest.

‘See, Louise. My girl set fire to me.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ Louise replies.

‘I lost my own flesh. I don’t owe nothing.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ Louise says again.

‘Ey?’ Mr England completely bewildered. He’s backing away. Moving his hands over the holes in his chest. A man full of holes. A manhole.

‘You’re not Louise,’ he whispers.

‘I am.’

‘You’re not my Louise.’

Louise is shaken. Snow falling over the Christmas scene. She’s on a pain pathway. Can’t get off it.

‘I’m as evil as a blonde can get,’ she whispers.

‘What you saying?’

‘I said I’m as evil as a blonde can get.’

The mister, the man, ghost Dad, manhole, something man staring at her, all beer and confusion, the smouldering bits of him, burning up, combusting.

‘Go on. Say it to me.’

‘Say what?’

‘Say you’re as evil as a blonde can get.’

Mr England searching for his vest. Staggering about for his checked lumberjack shirt. Louise has placed her orange boot over it and he doesn’t dare ask her to move. He’s been here before. Girl Danger announcing itself. The holeman remembers.

‘You’re as evil as a blonde can get.’

‘Say it more.’

‘You’re as evil as a blonde can get.’