The Way Out Read online

  ‘Best one I’ve had was the beer,’ I say. ‘Just sat on our arses drinking beer and saying whether we liked it or not. I mean, Christ, I’d do that for free. Easiest forty quid I’ve ever made. Thank you very much!’

  ALLEN

  While he talks, the youngster mimes drinking a pint, accepting money, tucking it into an inside pocket which he then pats in a satisfied way. Does he think we’re all idiots or does he have some kind of miming disorder? Funny how you can go right off people, just like that.

  Young folk these days have no conversational skills, they’re only interested in performing. And even then, they’re not interested in anyone’s honest opinions. They just want to know that they’re showing themselves in a way that others feel obliged to admire. There’s no truth in anyone anymore. Nobody asks questions or cares to hear the answers.

  MEGAN

  Bloody typical. The guys always get the ones about drink. Like women aren’t supposed to enjoy beer and whisky. Ha! Like the best we can hope for is that maybe someday Babycham or Lambrini might want to do a focus group on how to relaunch their fizzy pish. Gets my goat. The all-female groups are always about bloody supermarket shopping. Which bakery items would appeal to the housewife doing the weekly family shop? What kind of 3 for 1 deals would really get us splashing the housekeeping money? Have to bite my tongue in those ones, so hard sometimes it bleeds. Especially when I’m supposed to be a stay-at-home mother of three. What sort of fresh fruit do we expect to see available at smaller stores?

  I remember Frances now. Her and her bloody bananas. Like they were the stuff of life. Got really heated about it. That and the ham. I mean, I just go to the shop and get whatever, not that interested. Some of these sad cows are actually driving between different supermarkets to get the best price on beans, or going out their way to go to a different one cos their husbands only like a steak pie out of that particular shop. Fucksake. Get a fucking life.

  FRANCES

  ‘Money for old rope really, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Just having opinions about stuff.’

  Folk nod and smile but no one says anything. It’s silent but for the sound of Megan chewing on what must be her third custard cream.

  ALLEN

  ‘Why are opinions like arseholes?’

  It’s a good question because it gives people a wee shake out of boredom, makes them pay attention and also makes them think. Not enough thinking these days.

  MEGAN

  Oh God. It’s the arsehole guy. Now I remember him. This is his routine. He’ll probably try and deliver the answer in his John Wayne voice.

  I don’t reckon Allen particularly needs the money. The intense way he talks, it’s like these groups are his only real chance to be listened to, for his opinions to matter to someone. I bet in his real life he’s one of those lonely old blokes who loiter at bars, forcing their conversation on anyone who stands still long enough. Probably, given that nose, over the course of his fifty-sixty years, he’s pissed off everyone he’s ever known. Could be he’s got a family that doesn’t want to know anymore and folk he used to call friends that are either already dead or are careful to avoid him in some other way.

  ALLEN

  ‘Everybody’s got one,’ I say, giving them my best Clint, ‘and everyone thinks everyone else’s stinks.’

  All I get back are some half-hearted hahas from around the table. Honestly, you have to shove a rocket under folk these days to get a reaction. Although it does look like I’ve got to Frances.

  I ignore her and carry on. Maybe I’ll get some decent chat going. I lean forward. ‘Everyone starts life as an arsehole. Did you know that?’ They all look at me blankly. None of them has a clue. ‘When a fertilized egg first starts to divide and cells multiply, they form a group, then a chain, then that chain curls round on itself into a circle but doesn’t quite meet at the ends. It leaves a gap.’ I demonstrate the circle and the gap with my index fingers, coming close but not meeting. People can always grasp a visual better than words. ‘That gap will eventually become the anus.’

  JAMIE

  At anus, the fake red-head splutters coffee and clatters her cup and saucer down on the table. She’s gone bright red in the face and she’s coughing that hard her eyes are watering. Bit of an over-reaction. After all, he’s right enough, we have all got one, even her.

  The old guy pushes his glasses back up his nose, the pads sliding back into the dents on either side. ‘First things first eh?’ he says, ignoring Frances’ wee choking fit. ‘And the first thing is making sure there’s an exit. A way out. Growth produces waste as a by-product and there has to be a way out for it or else the environment becomes toxic.’

  I lean back in my seat. Toxic environment? No kidding. The old guy’s breath is rank.

  MEGAN

  While we’ve all been preoccupied, wishing the arsehole guy would shut up or drop dead, a new member has arrived to join our group, taking up the last seat. The overstuffed brown upholstery gives a little pfft as she sits down.

  The first thing I notice about her is her mouth. It’s like she’s not got one at all. Some trick of the light makes it look as if the skin below her nose continues smoothly down and wraps around her jawbone without so much as a wrinkle in between. I blink hard and look again. The illusion clears. She does have a mouth, of sorts. No more than an inch and a half across. It looks unfinished, as if it was added as an afterthought then abandoned before it was properly done.

  She keeps her eyes down and crosses her ankles. Obviously new to this game. She’s not going to be much use. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

  The whole point of focus groups is to have opinions and speak up. You have to take your turn. Can’t just sit there and stare at your hands. That’s not what they pay us for. And if it wasn’t for the money, none of us would be here. Except maybe Allen.

  JAMIE

  Christ, how long are they going to keep us waiting here?

  I look at the three women in turn.

  Aye… Probably… Aye, why not?

  I’d do them all.

  None of them are particularly fit or anything but I wouldn’t turn it down. If it was there on a plate, like. No Sir. The older ones would be grateful, especially the fat one. Maybe she’s a dyke. They don’t bother about the fat the same as straight birds. The one with the orangey hair has the look of a screamer. But it’s the quiet one with the small mouth that’d be the filthiest. It’s always the quiet ones. I pass the time while the old guy drones on about cells and arseholes, imagining the women in various positions with each other, and me, obviously. It soon gets complicated. Imagining group sex is a bit like chess, holding all the possible moves and counter-moves in your head while not letting the entire plan go off the boil.

  ALLEN

  I give up. This new lassie’s a waste of space. I can tell that straight off. Reminds me of my daughter, Lisa. Never could get a reaction out of her either. She’d just sit there, letting everything happen around her. Like her mother. Not one thing happened to that woman that she had the gumption to do anything about, not life, not death.

  MEGAN

  Either she’s not been given a name label or she’s not got the nerve to put it on.

  There’s one custard cream left and I’m just about to go for it when that bitch Frances picks up the plate, and offers it to the nameless girl saying, ‘Here you are dear, you nearly missed the best bit.’

  FRANCES

  Anyone can see the poor thing needs that biscuit more than the rest of us. She’s that thin, she’d snap in a high wind. The way young lassies starve themselves. It’s not attractive. She could be quite pretty too. Lovely bone structure, if there was more than just skin stretched over it.

  JAMIE

  The skinny bird takes the biscuit without saying anything and starts nibbling away at it, like a mouse. Her mouth. Telling you. It’s mental.

  When it opens, you can just see, it’s bright red inside. Can’t take my eyes off it. Sexy as anything. All red, and wet. A tiny triangle
of tongue darts out and swipes around her lips. I want to put my fingers in her mouth and feel about. Like there’s bound to be treasure in there. Some kind of jewel or a golden key or a miniature beating heart. All this just comes out of nowhere. My mouth goes dry and I sit on my hands to stop them reaching out to her. I’m blushing. I glance around the rest of the group. Allen’s glasses have come loose again and Megan is staring like she wants to eat her. Frances wipes her forehead with a tissue and it comes away all smeared with orangey-brown gunk.

  MEGAN

  We’re all watching as she chews and swallows. It’s like we’re all waiting for something to happen. Then it does. She sits suddenly forward in her chair, her mouth peels open. I think she’s about to speak. But her hand goes to her throat and her eyes widen. We’re all just sitting there watching her. I’m hoping she’s just making a big performance out of being about to speak, since she’s said nothing so far. I think we’re all trying to hold onto that same hope while knowing we’re looking at something else completely.

  ALLEN

  Her eyes are bulging now, like they’re being inflated from the inside, pushing out from the bones of her head and her hands are clawing at her throat, leaving red scores on her white skin. Her mouth is open so wide she looks like a baby bird waiting to be fed. Waiting and waiting and nothing coming her way. Straining wider and wider till her mouth is bigger than the whole of her head.

  JAMIE

  Why isn’t anybody doing anything? I don’t fucking know what to do. Why doesn’t anyone know what the fuck to do? She’s up off the seat in a crouching position, keeling over to the side and then she’s down on the floor, her legs scrabbling under her like she’s trying to run away. Then there’s this moment like a pulse, like some electric charge goes through everyone and we’re all on our feet.

  FRANCES

  Allen pulls the lassie upright and I get behind her, lock my arms around her middle and pull back hard. Heimlich manoeuvre. Everyone knows it. Anyone of us could have done it. I just happen to be the one in the right place at the time.

  JAMIE

  This wet doughy wad of chewed custard cream comes shooting out the girl’s mouth, hits the coffee table and explodes, sprays right across it. And it’s like everyone unfreezes. Megan helps Frances and the pair of them lay the lassie down on the settee next to me as I sit down and let her sort of slump over so her head is on my lap. She’s breathing heavy and her forehead is damp as I stroke her hair out of her eyes. She nestles into my arms like they’re a space that was always waiting for her. I feel like I’ll never let her go. Like I’m only here, was only ever here to take care of her. Like this is love.

  ALLEN

  It all happened so fast but everyone’s doing what they need to do. I take the lassie’s hand and rub it. It’s limp but I can see the life pumping through those small blue veins. She turns her head and looks me right in the eye. Her eyes are so blue and her look makes a clear space right through all the shite and shows me what I have to do. Soon as I leave here I’m going to phone Lisa. Life is so fucking short. There’s no time to arse around.

  Megan has her arm around Frances, holding her up. Both crying. Big black tears are running down Frances’ face and Megan is wiping them away, telling her everything’s okay, that she’s amazing, that she saved that lassie. Someone, maybe it was me, I don’t know, shouts to the receptionist to phone an ambulance.

  Chicken

  Don’t think about it. Just keep shovelling. Try not to breathe any more than necessary. Get the job done.

  The stuff weighs almost nothing, taken one shovelful at a time. But when the first bag is full it stands as tall as my waist and the rolled plastic edges stretch tight over my fingers when I heft it to the side. One down, two more to go.

  Across the road, I can see them watching. Arthur’s orange curls blazing in the sun, legs planted wide, arms folded across his chest. He’ll see these bags filled and brought back over the road and he won’t take his eyes off me till it’s done. No chance of escape. Not from him.

  It’s piled in three hills, high as houses in the middle of the field. This field isn’t even ours. It belongs to the farmer next door but Arthur says we’ve an arrangement with him and I’ve drawn the short straw. What straw? I asked, and he gave me one of his looks. The short one, boy, he said. None of the others are going to stick up for me. They’re having a great old laugh, happy not to be Arthur’s victim for the day, the week, however long he likes. Eddie’s been getting it in the neck most of the summer, so a day off for him must feel like Christmas. Still, someone needs to have a word.

  Doesn’t even smell like shit. Not like manure or anything. Manure’s got a good clean smell, sort of natural. If I had to choose a favourite shit smell then it’d be horse. But this stuff is rank. Worse even than Eddie-after-a-curry-in-the-portabog stink. This is beyond shit. It’s disease and filth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no veggie, I like my meat, but this stuff is making me think about the battery barns it’s come from, about the crippled birds sitting in their own mess, about how all eighteen years of my life somehow add up to this. To me in this field with this mountain of shit.

  Shake another bag open and weigh it down with a couple of shovelfuls. Where I’ve been digging, the stuff underneath is damp, yellow-white and porridgey. The sun has dried out the top layer and the wind lifts dust and crumpled feathers off the sides of the hills and swirls them around. It’s all over me, on my face, in the creases of my clothes, through my hair, making it feel coarse and sticky like wool does when it’s still on a sheep.

  I blow my nose into my hand and this muck comes out thick like wallpaper paste. I hawk and spit and the taste in my mouth nearly makes me chuck but I hold it in. I’ll not give him the satisfaction. Christ, it’s hot. The sun’s on the back of my neck like a branding iron.

  Just get it done.

  You’d think a man with a name like Arthur would be some nice easy-going old bloke with trousers all bagged out at the knee and maybe a fishing rod or an allotment. Our Arthur picks me up for work at five thirty every morning at the bottom of my street. The early start is fine when you get used to it. Better to be out the house before the old man wakes anyway. I like walking down the road while everyone else is asleep. Not a sound apart from the birds until Arthur turns up. I can hear him coming a mile off. Drives a red Escort with so many spoilers and extra bits of body-work you have to wonder what’s underneath it all. When he pulls up, the engine noise is drowned out by the Bruce Springsteen Arthur likes to play, full blast with the windows down. He doesn’t lower the volume when I get in, just shouts over the top of it, drinking from a can of Pepsi Max and steering with two fingers, arm crooked out the window. And he never stops talking. It’s usually details I don’t want to hear about all the sex stuff he did with his wife the night before. Or his psycho mates and the fights they get into. I just stare out the window, but I can’t tune right out in case he asks a question and susses I’ve not been listening.

  His eyes are a chlorinated blue, and his hair is brutally orange. No one takes the piss the way they normally would with a ginger nut. No jokes about Duracell or carrot tops around Arthur. Not if you value your life. Eddie once called him the Ginga Ninja, thinking Arthur was up the top field but he was back and he overheard him. Probably that’s why Arthur’s had it in for him all summer. Someone should say something though. He’s right out of order.

  Don’t know what I did to deserve his attention today. Maybe he’s just sharing out the pain, his own idea of fairness, showing he’s no favourites.

  His skin is white as milk, as if his hair and eyes got all the colour going and his skin was left with none. The muscles on his arms and shoulders are all scooped and piled up like ice cream Sundaes. He’s not a tall man but not short. Broad, walks bow-legged like a cowboy, holding his arms out from his sides like he’s about to reach for his gun any second. The rumour is he’s not long out the jail. Killed some guy outside a pub. Didn’t mean to, just unlucky. Not as unlucky as the po
or bastard he killed, Eddie said. One punch and the guy went down, hit his head on the kerb and that was him. Finished. Involuntary manslaughter. I don’t know if it’s true. Don’t know where the rumour came from. Could’ve been Arthur himself started it. It’s the sort of thing he’d think was funny.

  Couple of weeks ago he nailed Eddie’s lunch box to the ceiling of the howf. We all watched him do it. No one said anything. He emptied it first, got the nail gun, stood on a chair, held the box against the ceiling and fired four nails through the base. Then he crammed Eddie’s lunch back inside and put the lid on. When Eddie came in we all watched him looking for his lunch. Arthur watching us. Eventually he found it. Everyone was laughing, especially Eddie, though we all knew he didn’t think it was funny. He saw it through, climbed up and tugged at the box so the lid came off, let his sandwiches slap him in the face, his banana poke him in the eye as it fell. He just stood there laughing, a brown smear of pickle wiped across his cheek. Never said a thing.

  The empty box is still there on the ceiling. Eddie brings his lunch in a plastic bag now. And Eddie’s the foreman. Arthur is really no one, no better than any of us, but don’t try telling him that. Even Ross the Boss gives him a wide berth, calls Eddie up to the office if he’s something to say, doesn’t come down to the nursery himself if Arthur’s around. Learned his lesson the first time. He’d said something about could Arthur please not park his car in his special manager’s space. We all knew that was a mistake. Next day, Arthur got the guy that delivers the compost to dump the load on Ross’s Beamer. Covered it completely, just the wing mirrors sticking out from this hill of compost. Ross got Eddie to dig it out. Didn’t say anything to Arthur. Thing is, Arthur’s a good worker, fast and strong, so we all have to work harder to keep up. Since he started we’ve got on faster than ever before. The top field is already laid out and the polytunnels are nearly done. That’s pure profit for Ross. And that’s what he likes. So, we’re stuck with Arthur till the end of the season. All the same, it’s not right. The way he is.