Nor Am I Out of it
by
Virginia Betts
I’ve always loved snow; the way it silences the world; the way it brings back memories and also promises a crisp, bright future.
It was snowing the night I first met him. I was finishing my shift at the bar, in charge of closing up, and he was the last punter, nursing a pint and reluctant to leave as the vintage juke box spun to a halt.
‘You’ll have to leave now, mate,’ I told him. ‘Closing time.’
He didn’t move at first, so, not wanting any trouble, I started to sweep up and tidy away, making chinks and clinks with the glasses to offer unsubtle hints that it was time to vacate the premises. When I looked up again, he was gone.
I saw the flakes turn from a casual drift past the window to a relentless sheet of white, lit by the streetlights and the moon. I sighed and reached for my coat.
I’d been in this job for such a long time now. When I first arrived in the city, I carried with me such dreams for my future. I was going to be famous, rock the city and shake up the world with my words and my songs. But after all this time, I was still working the same graveyard shift; still locking up and catching the bus back to my rented room in a four bedroomed townhouse. This was my life, and perhaps I was too disillusioned, or too lazy and comfortable to move on now?
I pulled my coat around me and put the fur-trimmed hood up, ready to brave the assault of the outside world. I headed reluctantly to the door. My shoes were wholly inadequate, and the prospect of walk to the bus stop, a slow ride through the snow and the roadworks, and another trudge to my door did not fill me with delight. I thought about a cab, but the meagre change in my pocket was unlikely to cover the fare. I switched off the light, stepped outside and locked up. Straight away frosty flakes came feeling for my face and lingered on my bare hands. I did love the snow, but I loved it from the vantage point of a cosy home with a glowing fire, or a winter walk on a clear morning, with the right footwear and warm gloves. This night was brutal, and my fingers were already turning from and angry red to blue with the cold. I shoved my hands in my pockets and began to trudge up the street, trying not to slip in the layer of white that had already obliterated the paving slabs.
It was then I saw the car. It drew my attention because it was an old Ford, an classic car now. The lights flashed a couple of times and I noticed that the figure behind the wheel was the young man from the bar. He beckoned me over and wound the window down.
‘You need a lift?’ he said.
‘Er, no, it’s ok,’ I replied.
‘I’m not a weirdo,’ he said.
‘Well, that’s just what a weirdo would say,’ I said, laughing.
‘You’re soaked,’ he said. ‘Jump in for a while at least, until the snow settles down a bit. I won’t go anywhere. Just get warm. I you like.’
‘I think it’s set in for the night, if not a few nights,’ I said, but I wouldn’t mind drying off a bit. I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You’re there almost every night, in the pub, aren’t you?’
‘I like it there,’ he said. ‘It’s my kind of scene, and it’s better than being stuck at my flat. You getting in?’
Against my better judgement, I climbed into the car. Something about him told me instinctively that I’d be safe with him and that he would not just drive off with me in the vehicle. ‘Just to get a bit warmer before my bus is due. I’d have to wait an age for the next one,’ I said. Snowflakes still clung to my eyelashes and fluttered down onto the sleeves of my coat. They continued to fall for a few seconds, strangely refusing to melt. It must have been colder than I thought.
‘Hey, good music! Is it on the radio? I asked.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘It’s an old 8-track. Came with the car. I love that stuff.’
‘It’s cool. I like retro style,’ I said.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘do you want a lift after all? I promise I’m not a murderer.’
‘Well, that’s just what a murderer would say,’ I replied, ‘but all right. What’s the harm? Anyway, if you murder me, at least I’ll get the day off tomorrow.’
‘It’s Sunday tomorrow,’ he said.
Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘Can you wait until tomorrow to murder me then? Then it will really count.’
He started the engine. ‘Where to, Madam?’ he said.
I gave directions.
When we arrived at my house, he burst out laughing.
‘What’s funny?’ I said.
‘I didn’t want to say anything,’ he said, ‘but live in the building kind of next door.’
‘What? The high rise?’ I said.
‘Yeah, Hellton Towers.’
‘Is it as bad as it looks?’ I asked. Then, ‘Sorry.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s probably worse. Hell in the sky.’
‘Well, I thought it was condemned,’ I said.
‘No, it’s still occupied, ‘he said. The residents have nowhere to go. But it is about time it was pulled down.’
‘I thought, after that one that caught fire, that those old blocks all had to come down,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t it built in the 60’s or something?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘but I like the music, remember?’ he said.
‘How long have you lived there?’ I asked.
‘Feels like forever!’ he said.
‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘I moved to the city a few years ago with big dreams. ‘I’m still living in the same rented room; still working in the same bar.’
I realised I hadn’t even asked his name. ‘I’m Gemma,’ I said.
‘I’m Tom,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Thanks for the life,’ I said, and jumped out. ‘Oh, it’s cold!’ I shivered a little. ‘I’m going to get inside. Maybe see you again.’
‘Definitely,’ said Tom. He saluted and drove away towards his tower block. Hellton Towers was an eyesore. I was so sure it was almost derelict and due to be demolished, but apparently, I was wrong. It stood like a relic amongst the newer flats and converted townhouses; a grey stone monument to a past age; not a place that would ever entice visitors.
On Monday, I had to admit, I looked for him and was disappointed that he did not appear. By Wednesday I was slightly worried and by Friday I was offended, thinking that he had disliked me and decided to drink elsewhere to avoid embarrassment. But on Saturday, there he was again, standing by the jukebox, having put on a record which blasted out Cilla’s robust vocals.
‘What a voice,’ he said, sipping his pint.
‘Yes, I like it,’ I said. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I couldn’t get away.’ He paused. ‘Do you fancy a drink after closing time?’ he said.
‘What, at a club?’ I said.
‘Maybe back at mine,’ he said. ‘I don’t get many visitors.
‘Oh, well,’ I faltered.
‘I’m still not a murderer,’ he said.
‘Oh, all right,’ I said. ‘Why not?’ I had secretly always wanted to see inside the towers.
The entrance smelled of cigarettes and stale piss, much as I expected. It was littered with cigarette butts, empty packets and adorned with graffiti. Predictable, I thought. One lift was out of order and the other seemed permanently stuck on floor 13. We took the stairs. Loitering on the stairwell on floor 8 we passed two hooded characters, dressed in black. One was passing something to the other from his mouth in exchange for cash.
‘The smackheads,’ whispered Tom.
‘Don’t you mind?’ I whispered back.
‘Live and let live,’ said Tom. ‘They don’t bother me. We all get on. All part of the same team here.’
‘But you’re not friends with them?’
‘No, but who am I to judge another?’ said Tom.
On floor 10 we passed a woman, dressed in scanty clothing. Black mascara seemed to stream down her face, and she was having an argument with a man, who suddenly struck her across the face. She swore and yelled as him as we hurried past.
‘Here’s my place,’ said Tom. ‘Number 13, floor 13!’
‘Unlucky for some,’ I joked, feeling a little uneasy at his apparent lack of concern about his unsavoury neighbours. An air of melancholy seemed to seep from the concrete walls, but as we entered his flat, I was surrounded by a burst of colour.
‘Wow! Retro!’ I exclaimed.
‘Told you,’ he said. ‘I like this era. Music, décor, style…look I’ve even got a lava lamp! Drink?’
‘What have you got? I feel like I should ask for a Martini or something. Tell you what, you surprise me while I just nip to the loo.’
‘It’s that way,’ he indicated, ‘through that door.’
Even the bathroom was stylishly outdated. It probably hadn’t been changed since the towers were built. The suite was turquoise, the walls tiled in pink, with a low-flush toilet and a shower curtain around the bath. I sat on the loo. He was a nice guy. I’d have a chat and a drink, then I’d leave. Maybe we’d see each other again. The building was a shit-hole, but he’d made the best of his flat. I closed my eyes for a moment, considering where this friendship might lead. But when I opened them a second later, it was completely dark. I fumbled around for the light-cord and when I snapped it on, instead of the shade, a bare bulb was swinging from the cracked ceiling. The bath was filled with dust and dirt and the black and white lino had gone; in its place were bare boards. The window was broken, and the wind whistled in. The pink tiles were covered in black mould.
With shallow breaths I felt my way through more darkness back to the living area. It too had changed, devoid of all colour, a derelict wreck. The lava lamp was smashed in a corner and the only remaining furniture was the orange velour sofa. Only now, the sofa was dirty and ripped, its springs protruding.
Then I heard him.
‘Help me,’ he rasped. And I saw Tom, creeping across the floor on his belly, lit by the moon and the glare of the remaining snow. His flesh seemed to hang off his face in strips and his eyeballs seemed sunken with only the whites of the eyes remaining to stare blankly back. I was too terrified to scream.
‘Release me,’ he hissed.
‘How?’ I whispered, rooted to the spot.
He pointed a decaying hand towards a pile of debris where a small knife glinted. ‘Kill me! Release me from this place!’ he said, hoarsely.
I grabbed the knife and without thinking I plunged it into him. A ball of fire swirled around him, and he rose up and staggered towards me. ‘Get out!’ he cried, his eyes now glowing red. This is hell and we are all in it! Leave while you still can!’
I ran to the door. ‘Thank you!’ he mouthed and then he staggered backwards towards the empty space where the window should have been and plunged straight through it.
I flew down the stairs as fast as I could; past the couple still fighting, who grabbed at my clothing; past the smackheads who grasped at my hands. I wriggled free and kept on running until I was out in the street, and I kept going until I was back home.
I looked for him in the coming weeks. Even after I had handed in my notice and right up until my last day. When he did not return, I could only hope he was free at last. But on my last day in the city, when I closed my front door for final time, I noticed him, standing on the street corner, cigarette in hand, leaning against a lamp-post. He beckoned me over.
‘I came back one last time to say thank you,’ he said. ‘You won’t see me again. Are you leaving?’
‘I’m going back home,’ I said. ‘I’ve finally decided to take some real time to write my music and I have a contract to do some singing in my local music bar. It may not be the city, but it’s a start.’
‘I died in that place,’ said Tom. ‘It was where dreams die. I was like you, full of dreams to hit the big time. I laughed at the name ‘Hellton’, but I was only there for three months before the rot set in. I got depressed. I got stuck. I died on the floor of that room and I never left. They should have torn that building down years ago. We were all trapped. I tried for so long to get someone back to help me, but I never could. Until you. I will never know why you got into my car that first night, but I’m so glad you did.’
‘I think I knew there was something,’ I said. ‘I think I needed to escape too. Hell is anywhere you can’t leave. Besides, I should have known when it kept snowing even inside the car.’
‘Well thank you, and good luck,’ he said. He winked, and I watched him walk away up the street until he was out of view.
Bio:
Virginia Betts is a tutor, writer and actor from Ipswich. She has had two books published, The Camera Obscure (supernatural, Gothic and noir stories) and Tourist to the Sun (poetry). She has also had numerous stories and poems published and performed live and on BBC Radio, and has won awards for her work. She has just completed her second poetry collection, That Little Voice, and is currently writing a gritty no holds barred noir novel. Virginia is a member of local Theatre Company, Black and White Productions, and her roles have Included Kate Bush, Mary and Anne Boleyn, Maud Gonne and at the time of writing, Patricia Highsmith. Virginia tutors English, loves to swim, play the violin, and watch Star Wars. She loves to read about crime and the darker side of life.
@ResultsGin
Punk Noir Press 