Read Online What They Do in the Dark by Amanda Coe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amanda Coe
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a fag and slumped to smoke it so that her soft white torso stacked on top of itself and over her waistband. A row of lush purple bruises the shape of fingertips stood out on the flesh of her back.
‘You looking at?’
‘Nothing.’
Pauline drifted away, belatedly sensing danger. She’d been less alert to it than usual because she wasn’t feeling well. Her head was thick and her legs felt woolly, as though she’d taken too many of Nan’s pills. She’d felt sick all day as well, too sick to eat her school dinner. She staggered upstairs to her bed, which was empty of Cheryl. The candlewick bedspread had been washed, and there was a sheet. Joanne had been to the launderette. Pauline crawled beneath the covers, breathing the launderette smell and loving Joanne. When she woke hours later in the dark it was with a lurch of dread. Cheryl was in the bed with her, rolled next to her on the slack mattress, but Pauline was shivering with cold, despite the combined heat of her sister’s body and the summer air. She was about to be sick.
Their room was closest to the bathroom, and Pauline ran, but before she could reach the toilet a hideous gush of sour liquiderupted through her mouth, splashing up from the patchy lino and over her clothes. The awful taste in her mouth, a few shuddering breaths, then the next wave assailed her, interrupted convulsively by the next, and the next. It was everywhere. She was crying now as well as shivering, and she’d shat herself at the same time as being sick. She tried to be quiet. Not because she was worried about waking anyone else in the house – she could hear voices downstairs and there was never an hour when someone wasn’t awake and about their business – but because she didn’t want to draw anyone to the scene of her shame. There were no towels to clean up the mess, and the empty toilet roll, furred with dust, mocked her from where it had rolled to the foot of the washbasin. She’d have to get the bedspread.
Still sniffling with shock and self-pity, Pauline waddled shittily back to the bedroom, where Cheryl slept on, the bedspread kicked off her. Returning to the bathroom, she retched on the landing outside, but there was nothing left to come up. She wrestled with the cover, turning the one bath tap that worked feebly on it before giving up and stuffing as much of the bedspread as she could down the toilet to get it properly wet. After a few plunges she cast it, heavy with water, on to the mess on the floor and stamped up and down its length, swabbing hopelessly at the vomit.
It wasn’t that Nan or the others minded stink and shit and mess, it was what they lived in, although even they probably drew the line at this. But Joanne would mind, she was different from the others, and Pauline knew she would blame her. Especially since she’d been looking for something to blame her for. It made it worse that she’d been to the launderette, that Pauline was covering the newly pristine bedspread with puke.
‘What’s all this in aid of?’
In her panic, Pauline’s first thought was that Joanne was wearing a swimsuit. She’d never seen her in a swimsuit.
‘I was sick.’
As soon as she spoke she couldn’t stop herself crying, as though the tears came from the same place as the puke.
‘Don’t be cross wi’ me, Mam, I’m sorry. I was sick, I couldn’t help it, I’m sorry, Mam …’ On and on she wailed, unable to stop, as though she was Craig’s age and not ten.
‘State of you. You messed yourself and all?’
Pauline continued to cry, abject, as her mother left the room. After a few seconds her tears stuttered, uncertain of the outcome. Was she being left? This would be better than she dared to hope. She reapplied herself to shoving the bedspread back and forth with her toes, sweating with nausea and effort. Joanne reappeared, wearing her plastic leather coat open over the swimsuit, which Pauline now saw was some kind of underwear which pushed up her tits and crammed
‘You looking at?’
‘Nothing.’
Pauline drifted away, belatedly sensing danger. She’d been less alert to it than usual because she wasn’t feeling well. Her head was thick and her legs felt woolly, as though she’d taken too many of Nan’s pills. She’d felt sick all day as well, too sick to eat her school dinner. She staggered upstairs to her bed, which was empty of Cheryl. The candlewick bedspread had been washed, and there was a sheet. Joanne had been to the launderette. Pauline crawled beneath the covers, breathing the launderette smell and loving Joanne. When she woke hours later in the dark it was with a lurch of dread. Cheryl was in the bed with her, rolled next to her on the slack mattress, but Pauline was shivering with cold, despite the combined heat of her sister’s body and the summer air. She was about to be sick.
Their room was closest to the bathroom, and Pauline ran, but before she could reach the toilet a hideous gush of sour liquiderupted through her mouth, splashing up from the patchy lino and over her clothes. The awful taste in her mouth, a few shuddering breaths, then the next wave assailed her, interrupted convulsively by the next, and the next. It was everywhere. She was crying now as well as shivering, and she’d shat herself at the same time as being sick. She tried to be quiet. Not because she was worried about waking anyone else in the house – she could hear voices downstairs and there was never an hour when someone wasn’t awake and about their business – but because she didn’t want to draw anyone to the scene of her shame. There were no towels to clean up the mess, and the empty toilet roll, furred with dust, mocked her from where it had rolled to the foot of the washbasin. She’d have to get the bedspread.
Still sniffling with shock and self-pity, Pauline waddled shittily back to the bedroom, where Cheryl slept on, the bedspread kicked off her. Returning to the bathroom, she retched on the landing outside, but there was nothing left to come up. She wrestled with the cover, turning the one bath tap that worked feebly on it before giving up and stuffing as much of the bedspread as she could down the toilet to get it properly wet. After a few plunges she cast it, heavy with water, on to the mess on the floor and stamped up and down its length, swabbing hopelessly at the vomit.
It wasn’t that Nan or the others minded stink and shit and mess, it was what they lived in, although even they probably drew the line at this. But Joanne would mind, she was different from the others, and Pauline knew she would blame her. Especially since she’d been looking for something to blame her for. It made it worse that she’d been to the launderette, that Pauline was covering the newly pristine bedspread with puke.
‘What’s all this in aid of?’
In her panic, Pauline’s first thought was that Joanne was wearing a swimsuit. She’d never seen her in a swimsuit.
‘I was sick.’
As soon as she spoke she couldn’t stop herself crying, as though the tears came from the same place as the puke.
‘Don’t be cross wi’ me, Mam, I’m sorry. I was sick, I couldn’t help it, I’m sorry, Mam …’ On and on she wailed, unable to stop, as though she was Craig’s age and not ten.
‘State of you. You messed yourself and all?’
Pauline continued to cry, abject, as her mother left the room. After a few seconds her tears stuttered, uncertain of the outcome. Was she being left? This would be better than she dared to hope. She reapplied herself to shoving the bedspread back and forth with her toes, sweating with nausea and effort. Joanne reappeared, wearing her plastic leather coat open over the swimsuit, which Pauline now saw was some kind of underwear which pushed up her tits and crammed
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