X) The Hanged Woman

She was in London. She liked London, had spent some happy times
there. The tube was busy, feted armpits and eyes already dead. A
juggler stood at the end of the carriage, he had green hair and a
smile, but already dead eyes. The world had become stale like the young
man's armpit three inches from her face. People were dead in their
bodies and no one bothered to tell them. In this world of dead eyes,
let them work it out for themselves.

With a bit of luck she'd be off the tube before the juggler got as far
as her with his begging hat. That was the only hope she had for the
day.

Her stop was next, Tottenham Court Road, the tube was slowing and the
green haired monstrosity was gaining through the mangle of crushed
commuters.

He was next to her, woolly hat extended huge smile and already-dead
eyes glimmering for the moment with zombie fervour. Money, the food of
all the un-dead. The fodder of us all.

She rummaged for coppers and then was out on the platform, moving, ever
moving in the same direction as all the other moving bodies. Work
calling it's lament to the faithful, drawing her ever closer to the
clocking on machine that would mark her day, that marked all her days.
Piped air-conditioning forcing the acrid smell of too many people into
her face.

She wanted to take the stairs. She always took the stairs, had become
used to the crush of people forcing her upwards, not allowing her to
take a breather. Eighty-eight steps. The metallic zig-zag pattern of
the treads seemed to move, like pin-striped trousers in certain light.
She had learned not to look at them, at first their optical trickery
made her dizzy, the air contracted in her lungs as she was hussled up
the endless flight faster than her fitness would allow. That first week
it had made her feel feint. Many times she had imagined what would
happen if she had melted to the floor. Would the rows of stamping feet
have trodden her underfoot never faltering in their march of duty? She
always prayed that nobody would talk to her at the top, because she
knew that she would be incapable of speech. It didn't hurt much now and
she didn't look at the moving patterns anymore. The stairs were good
for her.

Today though she wasn't allowed to take the stairs. The natural dance
steps of forking off to either stairs or lift had become dismantled,
somebody was out of time to the beat. The press of people pushed her
onwards towards the lift doors. Liz didn't like the lift. She wanted to
go up the stairs. It was good for her.

The metal door in front of her clunked open, jolting once on its
un-oiled mechanism and seamless arms pushed her inside.

The door returned along it's grinding path and then she was alone. All
the people had vanished. She felt scared for the first time; the hairs
on her arms rose and stiffened.

Where had all the people gone?

Why was she alone?

The lift began its assent. It picked up speed going faster and faster
until Liz felt weightless. She was dizzy, nauseous, regretting not
having had at least a slice of toast and a hot drink for breakfast but
the malevolent clock had conspired against her again.

Time lost all relevance; she could have been riding the lift for a
minute or for several hours. She might have been there forever.

It stopped.

And she turned her eyes to the door, willing it to open. The metal had
become large black and white checks, moving ever moving. Hurting her
eyes, making it difficult to focus to find purchase on the part of the
door that would slide back to let her out. She longed for the press of
the anonymous bodies, yearned the already-dead eyes, needed to be
around other human beings again.

The door opened and she ran in a panic through it before it fully
completed its opening journey.

One, Two, three steps and there was another black and white checked
door blocking her progress.

It was opening. Thank-God it was opening. She continued to run, not
easing her stride, gasping, sobbing without being aware of tears, in
full flight.

Through the second doors and running headlong towards another set of
black and white checks.

They were opening. She kept running. To stop now would surely result in
death.

Through the doors and towards the next set. She knew the game now, was
aware of the rules. Endless black and white checked doors. Doors to
eternity, an infinity of moving doors and she had to keep running
through them. She would run and run and run, and if ever she slowed her
pace the doors would clang shut behind her and in front and she would
be trapped forever in a moving box of shifting check.

But it wasn't like that.

The next doors were the last.

Liz burst through them into a circular opening.

Ancient replaced modern.

Gone were the check and metal, the smell of stale perspiration and the
taint of human hopelessness. She might have been at the base of the
North Tower in a medieval castle. The space she found herself in was
small, just large enough for her to turn with her arms outstretched and
not touch anything. The air was damp, no less stale than the
underground had been, but different. The heavy smell of moss and damp
pervaded her nostrils and made her want to sneeze. The brown stone
walls were old and crumbling, the atmosphere full of dust and age. All
around her were six arches. Through each of these a flight of sandstone
steps could be seen spiralling upwards. At first the steps were fairly
wide but she could see that each one narrowed slightly to fit the curve
of the spiral.

Instinct told her that she mustn't stop. If she hesitated the walls
would fall around her and she would be crushed under the weight of
decay. With barely a heartbeat's indecision she ran to the arch at
twelve-o-clock and hurried up the stairs. They may not be safe, but to
dally would result in death anyway. Two thirds of the way up the tight
spiral she felt as though her lungs were going to explode in a rainbow
of chopped offal, but she was gratified to see daylight timidly
lighting the step three above her. She was nearing the end.

Mustn't stop.

Mustn't slow down.

Any pleasure that sweet fresh air might have afforded Liz at the top of
the tower was robbed from her. She entered the bright sunlit turret
squinting, tears and beads of perspiration mingling in the furrows of
exertion on her face.

From the wall of the castle hung a sturdy flagpole, and from the sturdy
flagpole hung a body. The body was facing away from her, dead eyes
scanning the horizon, perhaps searching for enemy marauders.

She was turned away from Liz, but still Liz knew, she knew who the lady
hanging from the flagpole was.

The brown shoulder-length hair brushed exactly one hundred times then
secured with a twisted willow slide. The navy suit bought for interview
and worn almost daily since. It had cost five hundred pounds, but her
mother insisted it was a worthwhile investment, since she was to become
a city-girl. The black court shoes, now slightly-scuffed and worn, but
comfortable while still being 'business-like' and serious. Liz didn't
need to gaze into the clear blue eyes to see who was hanging from the
sturdy flagpole.

She knew.

There was no wind, the day was still and clear with fluffy white clouds
and a denim-blue sky, but still the body began to rotate towards her.
She wanted to reach out and grab it, stop it turning, stop it moving.
She didn't want to see, didn't need to see.

She already knew.

But the rotation was soon complete and Liz looked upon her already-dead
eyes, aware for the first time that she was standing in a puddle of
stinking urine that hadn't yet soaked into the porous rock. Her dead
self was white as though every drop of blood had been drained from her
body. Liz screamed.

But the scream was cut short; it was a luxury she couldn't afford. She
had no time to stand around dithering, she had to keep moving, had to
get away, find the way out before the prophesy in front of her became
reality.

She turned back the way she had come and skittered down the eroded
stairs. Her shoes not suited to the unfamiliar terrain missed several
steps on the way down and she stumbled, but soon she was back in the
circle of choice. Directly ahead of her faced the doorway to the lifts,
only now it had changed, instead of a chequered door there was an
identical set of brownstone steps spiralling upwards. Maybe there was
no way out. She chose the arch to the left of the one with the hanging
body and began her climb. She was slower this time but the sense of
urgency had not left her. She pushed her tired body, urging it ever
faster straining it to the limits. Half way up she misjudged the
narrowness of the next step. She fell onto her knee and felt her tights
tear. The ripple of a ladder fluttered up her leg like an gentle
expulsion of wind into her underwear, and the feted air of the stairway
probed at the exposed knee making it sting. What would her boss say
when she turned up to work in such a state?

She prayed aloud that the end of the flight of stairs would bring her
escape. That she'd find herself on Tottenham Court road and continue
her journey to work. She wouldn't ask questions she promised, truly she
wouldn't. She wouldn't even tell a soul what had happened. She just
wanted to go to work, like every other morning.

This time the body was already rotating towards her as she left the
final step. Liz sank to the ground aware of her bleeding knee and she
put her head in her hands and wailed.

The haunting wail was loud in the quiet bedroom. Until that moment only
the comforting tick of the alarm clock invaded the silence. Liz was
sitting upright in bed, her face buried in her hands, crying the cry of
the mournful or the damned.

She wanted him, but of course he wasn't there. Any him would have done
really, the last him or the him before it made no difference they were
all useless. But even he could hold her and that's all she wanted right
then, to be held. To be held tightly until checks and castles faded
into a bad dream.

She couldn't sleep after the nightmare and got up at four-twenty-two
am. The hours passed slowly and she drank endless cups of tepid coffee.
She didn't bother going to the job centre the following morning. There
was no point any way. She went every day, and everyday Allan- he wore
his name badge with pride- gave her the same blank stare through
already dead eyes.

She killed time, while time taunted her, until around noon and then,
unable to deal anymore with the silence, she went out. She took two
busses, her sub-conscious on over-ride. She had no idea where she was
going, but her mind did and it was in control today, Liz was merely a
passenger on the back seat of the bus and in the backseat of her
life.

The town was familiar but different. A new health centre built on the
waste ground where they used to have the 'Sales Of Good Work' Liz liked
those and used to save her pocket money to spend, she once bought a
broken clock, a relic from the thirties. It had adorned some parlour
with brown wallpaper and brown lives. They didn't have parlour's any
more, or sculleries. And thankfully long gone were the outhouses down
the yard.

She took another bus, one of those mini-saver things. It went up the
estate. She got off at the corner of Oakwood Drive. Nothing much had
changed in twenty-five years. She felt as though she was back in her
nightmare as she began to walk up the hill. Nothing felt real and
people stared at her as they went about their business.

26 Maple Avenue. It was still there. The little council house hiding in
shame along with its contemporaries. She thought of knocking at the
door. Saying hello and explaining that she used to live there, would
they mind awfully if she had a little look round? But it seemed too
cheeky.

Would she mind if somebody knocked at her door like that? She thought
not, but then it would depend on whether she had cleaned out the cat
litter box that morning or not.
So she contented herself with just walking past a couple of times. She
didn't see a cat so maybe it would have been all right.

The garden was different; all her dad's rose bushes had been taken out.
His precious blue rose, and the bright yellow ones and the scarlet red
ones. All gone. She used to make rose water from the petals; it always
smelled old and foisty, she didn't think that she got it quite right,
but it passed some childhood hours.

The park was still there, she walked towards it and then stopped and
looked backwards. There was the back of number 26 now. Her bedroom. Her
sanctuary, but it wasn't really, even there wasn't safe. He used to
come in sometimes when he'd been drinking heavily. He used to do
things. Bad things. The house had every right to be ashamed.

Once she'd leaned out of her bedroom window and yelled across to some
kids on the park. She asked them if they could hear her music from
there. Just at that moment Mr.High from next door had marched into his
garden with a very red face and yelled that "Yes they bloody well could
hear it and the police had been called." She shut the window fast. The
police scared her plenty, but her dad scared her more. She had waited.
Scared.

The slide and the swings were tired and old, they didn't look as though
they'd been changed since her day. They were old and worn even then.
The black tar had gone though, replaced by bark Chippings. A large dog
turd stood proud in one clump, right at the end of the slide. Maybe
dogs had a sense of humour too.

She walked past the play area and followed the path across the football
fields. Picnic benches had sprung up at the far end, they were new.
Surprising what grew in the grass if you left it alone long
enough.

A gang of five teenagers sat with attitude at the benches, and a
smaller boy played in the damp grass at their feet.

Three of the older kids were smoking. 'Smoking big' Liz called it,
flamboyant gestures attesting to their maturity and peer standing. Two
of them were necking. The boy's hand groping at the tender flesh of the
girls left breast. Liz was close enough to see his fingers working at
her nipple teasing it to fullness. He was discovering for himself what
he had only heard about in the school playground, his hard-on firm
against the zip of his jeans.

Normally she would have just walked past. People did, gangs of youths
are by nature intimidating, they practise it until perfect. But today
was different. Today she was going to be different.

They of course had been watching her approach; they watched everyone
who walked on 'their' patch. They watched with perfected
nonchalance.

The first step Liz took from the path altered their attitude though,
apart from the two who were still going at each other, her hand was all
over the front of his pants now and Liz could hear their harsh
breathing from ten yards away. They were oblivious. But the three
smoking sentries were alert and watchful. People didn't stray from the
path. It wasn't safe, it wasn't sensible.

"Excuse me?" Said Liz.

Even the neckers stopped now and turned baleful eyes towards her. The
girl still straddled the boy and made no effort to do up her buttons or
get off his knee.

"Yeah" said one of the smokers, blowing a stream of smoke in Liz's
direction.

"Who the hell are you?" said one of the other's shocked at the woman's
audacity in disturbing them.

"I grew up here." Liz knew it was an inane comment, but she felt that
it explained a lot.

"So?" said one of the girls glaring at her with a look of pure hatred.
It was an affected look though, she didn't hate Liz, she was too
swathed in teenage apathy for real emotion.

"I got off my face on mushrooms one night just over there by that
bench."

This was different. The kids passed a confused look between them,
normally 'old's only came over to lecture them about smoking.

"Cool!" said one of the lads, fighting to keep a look of admiration off
his face.

"Trucker Morton gave them to me, told me there were only five and there
were three hundred all scruched up, the bastard. I was still tripping
the next day."

Now they were impressed and even teenage apathy couldn't keep the look
of respect off their faces.

"Hey Trucker's my mate's dad." Said the lad with the most severe of the
skinhead haircuts.

"Cool!" he repeated.

Liz looked over the park seeing it as it was then, watching the
memories run across it.

"I smoked my first blow on that middle swing. And I got laid for the
first time in the long grass over there by the hawthorn. The sex was
shite and I nettled my arse and couldn't sit down for a week."

The kid's laughed.

"Cool!" said two of them in unison.

Liz's eyes clouded over as the memory of those unhappy days hit her
with a force that knocked the breath from her.

"What I'm trying to say is that. You must live each day as if it's your
last. Do what you want to do, don't let anybody tell you that you
can't. But make sure that what you do is right for you. Find happiness
where you can and grab onto it. Because it doesn't last &;#8230;
believe me it doesn't last."

Her voice tailed off. She felt old and tired, the weight of her sadness
bore down on her and she had lost the kid's that for a few seconds she
had held enthralled in the palm of her hand. Now they were casting
sidelong glances at each other, uncomfortable, not knowing how to react
to this nut.

"Yeah well you don` live `ere now do ya? Said one of the girls drawing
hard on her fag. "So why don'tcha just fuck off."

Liz looked into each of their eyes in turn and saw that they were
already dying. She turned and walked back to the path.

"Amy" she heard the boy with the hard on saying. "Don't be so tight."
Liz didn't look round.

"Hey! Hey lady! You're all right you are." As she turned the corner she
saw all their heads close in together as they discussed the strange
woman.

She continued walking along Brichwood Drive and got about two blocks
down before she became aware of the sound of footsteps hurrying along
behind her.

"Hey." Said a little voice. "Hey."

Liz turned and saw the younger boy who had been sitting quietly in the
grass at the side of the bench.

"Yes?" She asked.

"Allo" Said the boy; he was older than she'd at first thought, maybe
nine or ten.

"Hello yourself." Said Liz pleasantly.

"Where you goin`?" Asked the boy.

"I don't know really, home I suppose."

"Can I come?"

"No" said Liz shocked but amused by the child's forthright
manner.

"Why?"

"Well, lots of reasons. I live at Barrow for one and that's three bus
rides away. And kidnapping little lads is not what I usually do on a
Wednesday for another. And anyway what would your parents say?"

"Oh they wouldn't bother, I've got to go to Barrow at free-o-clock
anyway to see me Nan. Our Amy's `posed to be lookin` after me, but she
jus` wants to `ave it off with Adam."

"Hhmm I can see your point." Said Liz remembering the pair in need of a
long bucket of cold water. "But I've got to go now, my bus'll be along
soon. Bye now."

"Okay see yer." Said the kid and Liz heard him running hell-for-leather
back in the direction of the park.

Liz smiled at the fickleness of kid's she thought for a moment she was
going to have trouble getting rid of the little urchin. Once again she
lost herself in old memories as she walked down to the bus stop and
stood waiting. The bus service ran every twenty minutes from the estate
to town so she knew she wouldn't have long to wait.

After a few minutes she heard a pair of feet hurtling down the road and
groaned aloud as she saw the scruffy kid from the park running down
towards her.

"Hiya," he said breathless. "Look." He opened his hand and showed Liz
the three pound coins in his palm. "Our Amy sez I can go to Barra now,
coz she can't be doin` wiv me." He grinned triumphantly.

Not one to be deterred by Liz's sour look he showed her the bag
clutched in his other hand.

"Look I've got me jamas an everyfin. Our Amy sez I've got to go
straight to me Nan's though coz we don't know you and you might be
crazy, so I can't come for a brew and a biskit at yours."

Well thank Christ for that thought Liz. But she couldn't help smiling
at the enthusiastic child.

When the bus drew up Liz got on and Drew-as was his name- got on after
her and plonked himself down beside her. Liz wished that she'd had a
bag of shopping or something to put on the seat to stop him sitting
with her.

What if something happened to him and someone remembered him sitting
with her on the bus? His parents obviously didn't care for him very
well. Not her problem she decided. She'd endure his chatter, say
goodbye, and get off the bus alone.

"Where do you get off Drew." She asked pleasantly.

"Holker Street, my Nan lives just round the corner on Goldsmith Street.
Where do you live?"

Liz couldn't believe her luck, she also got off at Holker Street and
Drew would have to walk past her house to get to his
grandparents.

Drew kept up a stream of childish chatter all the way from Ulverston to
Barrow. Liz felt one of her headaches coming on less than a third of
the way into the journey.

"Why are you so sad?" Asked Drew suddenly.

Liz was taken aback, but his brown eyes were looking at her earnestly
and he was waiting for an answer. Liz realised that they hadn't even
begun to die yet. The child's eyes were still solemn and bright and
untainted by the harshness of the world.

"I don't know Drew, I suppose life hasn't given me any of the things I
expected from it."

"Oh." He said disappointed by such a tame answer. And thankfully that
was the end of that conversation.

When they got off the bus Liz was a little bit worried about walking to
her house with Drew still in tow. What if he came back and broke in
when she was out? What if he damaged her garden ornaments out of spite?
Drew didn't seem to be a spiteful child though. He was dirty and
unkempt true enough, but he was bright and cheerful and seemed
friendly.

Liz said goodbye to Drew and smiled in relief as he walked down the
street with a careless backward wave.

"My Nan's gonna give me some money for being good." He yelled back at
her. And then he was gone.

Liz let herself into the empty house and sighed at the quietness of it.
She knew she wouldn't be going out again and that her garden ornaments
didn't matter anymore.

It was four days before they found her hanging from the top of the
stairs. The summer heat had driven the neighbours to complain about the
smell. When the men from the council broke the door down they trampled
all over the things on the doormat. It was only later after the body
had been removed that someone picked them up.

A packet of digestive biscuits had been forced through the letterbox,
they were already in a million crumbs before they ever hit the welcome
mat. Beside them was an envelope with fifty pence inside and a note
scribbled in a childish hand.

I lik comics when I'm sad so heers fifty pense to get one. I hoep you
lik dijestiv biskits.

About the same time on the tube pulling into Tottenham Court road a man
with green hair was holding out a woolly hat, he was smiling widely,
but his eyes had already died.

.