CLEANER: Chapter Six - Part Three

MELISSA

The window of the off licence at the end of my road had been smashed in when I popped in there.

A translucent sheet was stapled up to the frame, rippling in the wind. The Indian man who normally ran the shop wasn’t there. A wizened old Indian lady literally half his height was in his place. I tried to make small talk; ask where he was (he’d never missed a night of work in five years); but she looked so horror-stricken at my words that I could only assume she didn’t speak English one jot. She looked equally frightened at the money I offered for the whisky I was buying. In a surge of magnanimity I picked up a six pack of beer for my husband and added it to the counter. The old lady peered at the money tremulously and gave me the wrong change. I didn’t query it with her because I couldn’t be arsed. And she’d given me too much.

My ankles were killing me as I walked down our road, my thoughts wandering back to my morning: the shining light in an otherwise dreary day. It was nice to have something to look forward to for a change. That kind of thing was practically unique in my crappy life. All I had to do now was wait for the inevitable other shoe to drop, no doubt leaving me in a far worse position than I’d started. I wouldn’t put it past Dahlia to blame me for putting her up to it; try and sue me or something. Anything could happen. It usually bloody did to me anyway.

Next door’s garden was still piled high with bin bags. I tutted to myself and sighed heavily, letting myself into the house.

The TV was on in the front room. Top Gear by the sound of it. There was laughter from the studio audience and the presenter’s idiot voice.

“Hi Robert. I’m home.” I waited for an answer then tutted again and want to the open door. “I’m home.”

Robert was in his armchair, only the back side of his head visible. He didn’t even bother looking round.

I stood there another ten or fifteen seconds then went through to the kitchen; put on the fluorescent; started getting tea ready. There was more mess than there had been that morning but it didn’t look like him indoors had made himself any dinner.

“Have you eaten?” I called.

No answer of course.

“Robert? Is bangers and mash okay?”

I heard a noise under the blaring TV that might have been a grunt. I started the food off and poured myself some whisky; sat down. The chair wasn’t wide enough for my behind, tucked in as it was between the table and the fridge. I considered moving to the other chair but didn’t. I sat there uncomfortably sipping my whisky intermittently. I poured myself a second glass; considered taking Robert’s beers through. Didn’t.

I thought about Summertop, wishing I could be there now instead of staring into space in that shithole. I pictured myself lying on the sun lounger again with nothing to do but feel the warmth and peace. I closed my eyes; tried to change the picture so that it wasn’t my bloated form in front of me; so that my legs were slim and pretty; my stomach thin; my arms thin.

I couldn’t do it. Not really.

I had some more whisky, feeling angry.

I checked the food.

When it was cooked I made up two trays and served it out. On Robert’s tray I put two of the beer cans and shoved the others in the fridge. It stank in there. Half the contents had gone off and needed clearing out. I figured I might do it after tea maybe. What did it matter?

I carried Robert’s tray through first. There was some kind of race going on on-screen between an old mini and a new mini round narrow city streets while the theme tune to Benny Hill played. The guy in the old mini was talking about how much better it was at cornering. It was painfully loud.

Robert didn’t look up at me when I entered his field of vision, nor when I set the tray down on his lap. I stood looking at him for a moment. He only glanced down at the plate before he commenced using his fingers to eat.

I went back through to the kitchen and got my tray.

By the time I got back into the lounge, Robert had his first beer open and tilted at such an angle to his lips that I could tell it was down to the second half. The mini race was over. The three presenters were laughing about how great it had been. I’d missed it.

There were splayed pages from the Daily Mirror all over the sofa. I had to put the tray on the floor while I pushed them into a mound at one end, then it was a wheezing struggle to get the tray up.

“How was your day?” I asked.

Robert ignored me. I started eating.

“Do you mind if we turn over after this?” I said. “There’s a programme on about some local woman who won the lottery.”

No answer. Robert went on eating with his fingers. I tossed his empty beer can on the floor and opened the second, spurting froth onto the carpet.

I looked back at my plate. The mashed potato was bland; the sausage undercooked.

“Cunt.”

I looked up and across at Robert. “What?”

He didn’t answer; wasn’t even looking at me.

On Top Gear they were back in the studio, rounding out the episode. The audience were clapping enthusiastically. The noise was giving me an intense headache.

I put the tray down on the sofa and stared at Robert. I picked the tray back up and went on eating.

The end music came on. Robert didn’t take his eyes off the screen. When it ended he raised the remote control and clicked it onto my channel. The show was just starting. I could see a shabby old house and a woman standing in front of it with a microphone.

The remote clicked again and a black and white war film came on. Robert put the remote down.

I stared at him for three full minutes.

Then I went back to eating and drank another slug of my whisky.