Consider the Lilies

CHAPTER ONE

We don’t want any bad habits here mate – know what I mean? Ray’s eyes glitter at me under his cap. He looks like a bad habit himself rather than a saviour, but I can’t refuse his offer of a roof over my head on a wet night.

Yeah, I say. It takes all my breath to keep up with him on the uneven paving and it’s raining – that drizzle that gets into every crevice.

Down here. He turns into a side street and I wonder what I’m walking into. But what’s the point? It’s two in the morning and even now the back streets of Liverpool aren’t quiet. The dispossessed are ever roaming, but down here it’s as still as it gets. Nevertheless, I’m nervous. There’s that don’t-walk-alone kind of menace you get in an empty street.

Here. He points down an alley. I wonder why me? What made him pick me up off the street tonight, when I’m at such a low point, pain throbbing through my hip, breaching my defences, letting the memories push through? Maybe I’ve read him wrong but I’ve got nothing to lose if he turns nasty. No point in doing me except for the pure psychopathic pleasure of it and he doesn’t look that type.

We turn into a back yard with no gate and up a pathway lined with bags of rubbish. I think of our house; of Corinne and Angela. Corinne used to nag me about the garden. I refused to have a gardener but never had time to look after it myself. I wonder who lives there now?

This house has boarded windows. Ray gives a series of knocks on the back door, which still looks fairly sound, despite the scabby paint. I’m still back at that other house, my home, standing under the flowering cherry by the pond, until the door opens.

What’s your name? Ray says, distracting my attention so I don’t look at the person behind the door, only the shadow as the door closes after me.

They call me the Hermit. The hall smells of cigarettes, candlewax and damp and there’s a dark room that looks like a kitchen. He’s leading me up bare stairs and I can see into doorless rooms below, full of shadows thrown up by guttering candles. It’s a fire trap waiting to happen except you can smell the whole place is so rotten damp it would never ignite. There are dim shapes: murmurings and mutterings like a restless crowd. We come to a landing, go up another set of stairs. The room he brings me to is dark and empty.

You’ll have to share.

Even without light I can see there’s nothing here except an empty fireplace and something that might be a mattress or bedding against one wall.

Okay by me. I slip the pack off my back onto the floor. What a relief. There’s a door in one corner of the room, a built-in wardrobe or something.

He’s watching me. Got a bad leg?

Yeah. Right now it aches like fuck.

I go over to the cupboard and open the door. A great hiss comes out at me and I slam the door and jump back quicker than I would have thought possible. Jesus, what is it? I almost lose my balance and my hip screams as it twists. Only the wall stops me from falling. All I can remember is a pair of eyes rolling, black and white like spotted eggs and a lot of very sharp-looking teeth.

Ray’s laughing at me. It’s okay. It’s only Cupboard Girl.

‘Calm down,’ I tell myself and get the primus stove out of my pack and set myself to the familiar routine of making a brew.

Organised aren’t you? His voice sounds mocking.

You didn’t say I had to share with a fucking she-wolf. My fingers shake as I light the stove.

She’s okay. She’s just scared. She’ll be all right when she gets to know you.

I settle myself on the floor. There’s a circle of light from the stove. It’s dark and peaceful after the watchfulness needed on the streets, but there is fear in the room, mine and hers, and that stops me relaxing. Stirring the water in the pan is soothing. I don’t have to stay here, I could be on my way right now, but it’s cold and wet outside, I’m tired and my leg –

What’s your story? He rolls a fag. I look at the tobacco tin and he looks at my pan of water. I get out the milks and sugar sachets I picked up in McDonalds earlier in the day and find two squashed paper cups in my pack that are reasonably clean. He offers me the tin. I don’t smoke much but I take it and roll up.

I dunno, I say. Haven’t got one. I’m too tired for parlour talk.

Everyone’s got one. He squints at me as he lights up. What happened to your leg?

War. I accept a light and drop a tea bag in the pan. It’s one I used earlier but he won’t know that.

Which one?

It doesn’t matter. I can’t be bothered elaborating the lie. I just don’t want to tell him the truth.

It’s permanent then?

Yeah. I pour the tea.

He keeps asking things but I don’t answer. We smoke our fags and drink our tea then the silence gets awkward and he goes away. I settle myself in my sleeping bag but let the stove burn for a few minutes. The blue flame takes my mind off the shadows and the thing in the cupboard. I keep staring at the door, straining my ears but not a sound comes out. Is it – she – asleep or like me, sitting motionless, listening? I turn the stove off, listen to the clicking noises as the metal cools. Other noises float up from below but can’t dispel the silence in the room. I can’t sleep. Her eyes are in my mind. I try to think of something else and then the nightmare begins. I can see Angela. Her face is white; her hair is matted with blood. I can see Corinne. Her face is grey; her eyes are blank. Her fingers claw hate on my shoulders. I’d give anything for a Glenfiddich, but that’s a door that I’ve shut. Corinne is shouting. I can’t make out the words because someone is screaming but I know she’s saying that it’s all my fault and then someone comes and gives me an injection and I slip …

* * *

Light squeezes round the boards on the windows when I wake and the mattress in the corner is empty. Faint street noises come into the room. I listen for clues, trying to get my bearings. It can’t be far from Bold Street, where I met Ray last night, but in the dark and the struggle to keep up with him I lost my sense of direction when we turned off somewhere after the ruined church.

In the room scraps of grimy wallpaper speak of past home comforts. Once, this was someone’s cosy bedroom. At home, our bedroom was decorated in quiet shades of green. It’s like a scene in a story I once read. It’s tempting to picture happy times: Corinne and I cuddled together, Angela bouncing on the bed, but those times didn’t last. I close the book. The cupboard door is shut and I can’t hear anything inside.

I shoulder my pack and set out in search of Ray. There’s just enough light to see by. On the landing one floor down I find a door with TOILET scrawled on it in black felt pen. Inside, it smells but it’s reasonably clean and there is water in it. I take my pants down and sit gingerly. My hip hurts and I wonder how many painkillers I have in my bag and if I’ve enough money to get more. The toilet pan is sturdy and takes my weight without rocking. It’s an old fashioned cistern with a long chain. When I pull it there’s a healthy flush and I get a small shower on my head. There’s even a toilet roll. I’m almost happy as I go down the final set of stairs.

No sign of Ray but there’s a woman moving round in the back of the house where we came in last night. It’s a kitchen or once was one. There’s a cooker that looks unused and none of the paraphernalia you’d expect in a working kitchen, but there’s a sink with taps and water running out.

The woman fills a plastic cup. She turns and looks at me, weighing me up as she drinks from the cup.

Hi, I’m Rita. Who are you?

They call me the Hermit. Ray brought me last night.

Ray’s our Good Samaritan. She smiles, drains the cup and fills it again. I can see right away she’s no smackhead. She’s thin but she looks strong and capable. She’s wearing a long skirt, a brown cardigan and woolly socks. She’s got a bandanna tied round her head and auburn hair pokes out round the edges.

You new round here? I don’t know your face. She’s studying me again, making me feel uncomfortable. I take my pack off and start setting up my stove.

Can I get some water? I assume there’s no electricity, judging by the state of the kitchen and the candles last night. She holds her hand out for the bottle, fills it and gives it back to me. She’s waiting so I have to answer.

I’ve been around for a while.

You’re not a scouser. She says it pleasantly but I sense a hidden accusation.

No. That’s as far as I’m willing to go right now and she looks at me and decides to respect that.

I’m from Croxteth. I don’t know where that is but it doesn’t matter. I left my husband. She drains the cup again and looks at me. It’s a sign that’s as far as she wants to go and that’s okay with me.

How many people are here? I stir the water and give her the two cups from last night to rinse out. It’s easier to ask questions when you’re doing something practical.

These are manky. She puts them in a bag of rubbish, opens a cupboard and takes out a roll of unused plastic cups.

About twelve. It varies. She laughs and the pleasure in it surprises me. People come and go.

So who’s in charge? I give her one of the cups of tea.

Got sugar? She keeps her hand open as I dole out the sachets, closing her hand when I get to four. Thanks. I don’t know. No one really. We just all muck in.

Yeah? My voice is full of sarcasm. I’ve been in squats before. She looks hurt.

Course we have problems, but it works. You’ll see.

I don’t plan to be here long enough to see. How long have you been here?

Three weeks.

I laugh and she looks nervous.

I was in a refuge before, but my husband found me. She looks down and picks at her skirt. What time is it, do you know?

I shrug.Feels about nine o’clock. That girl – woman upstairs: Cupboard Girl. What’s that all about?

She smiles. Vicky? Is that where Ray put you? The house must be full. We usually try to leave her alone.

So she’s got a name. Vicky. Sounds normal, ordinary, a schoolgirl’s name or a page three girl. Victoria – posh, regal, a plum, an it girl, not that thing in the cupboard. Then I remember her gentle touch on my leg. It’s difficult to marry the two images. Do they leave her alone because she’s dangerous?

What’s her story?

Who knows? She shrugs. She doesn’t say much.

She can talk then?

Oh yes, in her own way.

What does she do?

Do? She looks at me puzzled.

Well, she can’t stay in the cupboard all the time. Food? Drink? Money?

Someone else comes into the kitchen. He’s tall, skinny and looks miserable as sin.

Hi Peter, Rita says brightly.

Going to rain all fucking day. He looks at the boarded window, takes a cup from the roll and rinses it out before filling it with water. He eyes our cups before drinking from his. He looks like he’s been having nightmares all night. I’m glad we’ve almost finished our tea, I’ve got no intention of brewing up for the whole house. I start packing up my bag. Rita follows me into the hall.

Sally Army caff’ll be open. She shuts the door on Peter. Fancy some breakfast? I’ll treat you.

I want to say no but I’m curious about Cupboard Girl. I’ve got my own money. I’ll get my sleeping bag.

You can leave it upstairs, it’ll be okay, she says, but I’m already climbing the stairs.

I don’t think I’ll be coming back, I say from the landing.

* * *

In the Sally Army caff, Rita fills me in on the house rules and the residents over tea and bacon sandwiches. The house is in the top half of Falkner Street, which is pretty well what I’d figured.

Never use the front door, only the back.

Goes without saying.

And you need to use the special knock. I’ll show you when we get back.

What if no one’s in?

There’s always someone in. She’s laughing at me as she takes a bite of her sandwich. If it does happen that no one’s in, there’s a key hidden in the yard. I’ll show you. Let me tell you about the others.

I’m not really interested in them, only in Cupboard Girl, but I let her rattle on while I’m eating.

There’s Peter. You saw him before. He’s a bit of a drag, always looking on the bad side. I think he used to be in a mental hospital although he doesn’t talk much.

Clinically depressed, I say. Who isn’t nowadays?

And there’s Mabel. She’s a tough old boot. She told me she’s seventy-two and she’s been on the streets for five years. Mind you she’s always bladdered, but the drink makes things bearable, doesn’t it? I like a drink myself. Her voice tails off and she looks at me.

In the light I can see the signs; a slight tremor, a liverish colour. I realise she’s younger than she looks, perhaps only about twenty-nine. I see myself in the kitchen, watching breakfast TV. There’s a tumbler of Glenfiddich on the worktop. Corinne has already rushed off to her job at Caddick and Co., otherwise the whisky wouldn’t be there. I’d promised her I wouldn’t drink before the evening.

I don’t drink as much as I used to. Her hand goes up and plays with the fringe of hair sticking out from the bandanna. Not now that I’ve got away from Steve.

She’s looking at me but she’s in some other place for a moment. Then she snaps back, smiles, lifts her mug again.

There’s Kindi. She won’t tell us where she’s from but she’s got a Brummy accent. She’s only a kid. She ran away from home because her dad wanted to send her to Bangladesh to marry some feller she’d never seen. There’s two guys on the first floor, Russians or Czechs or something. They don’t speak hardly any English. I think they’re illegal immigrants.

And Ray? I drink my tea and look interested.

Ray’s wife left him. Took the kids and ran off with a Scot. She lives in Glasgow and Ray never gets to see the kids. He just went to pieces. Lost his job and his house. He thinks the world of them kids. He doesn’t talk about it but one night me and him had a few drinks and got talking. He doesn’t care nothing about himself, but he looks after everyone else here. It’s like it gives him something to hang on to. He’s like a bloody social worker, except he doesn’t try to tell you what to do.

I’ll get some fresh tea. I get up and gather the mugs. She’ll want to know about me next.

And Cupboard Girl? I say when I come back. What about her?

We don’t know much about her. She takes the tea, glances round the room. She can talk but she doesn’t most of the time. She’ll answer you if you talk to her, sometimes, once she gets to know you, that is. When she does talk, most of it doesn’t make sense.

What do you mean?

She jumbles her words up. Sometimes you can figure it out in the end, or you think you do, but it’s hard work. You can’t have a laugh and a joke with her. She doesn’t seem to understand. She speaks funny too, sort of all one tone. We think she’s retarded, got out of a mental institution or home or something.

Care in the community?

Yeah, she laughs, that’s us. We all look after her.

Why?

I dunno. I really don’t know why we do it. She’s the only one doesn’t do any work, but we still look after her. Ray found her one night in a back street with three men. He heard her screaming. He went down the alley and the men ran off. She was in a right state.

I’m struggling with the thought of being down an alley with those rolling eyes and vicious teeth but at the same time anger stirs. How can people mistreat someone like that?

It was her own fault in a way. We felt sorry for her and that’s why we took her in but we soon found out that she likes men. Young men. These ones just went too far with her. You should be safe. She looks at me and grins.

So Ray brought her back here. What does she live on?

"We all feed her. That’s all she seems to need really. We take her shopping sometimes. She loves the shops. She’s like a kid with toys. She shoplifts like mad, but sometimes we have to do that too. We just