‘I don’t know why you always hated me. I never did anything to you.’
‘Imogen… you’ve got it all wrong.’
Imogen stared defiantly at Sinead for a few uncomfortable beats. Tim attempted to stand up and leave, but Heidi clamped her hand on top of his.
‘I suppose he’s moved in with you now?’ Imogen asked.
‘No!’ Sinead shook her head. ‘No fucking way.’
‘Perhaps you can remind him that he still owes me rent money.’ Imogen crossed her arms. ‘Seeing as he’s stopped taking my calls.’
‘Don’t ask me to give him a message. I’ve got no idea what he’s up to.’
‘You disgust me. In my own bed. You’re sick. How many nights did I sleep there after you two–’
‘It’s not true! Nothing happened, okay?’ Sinead knew that was only half true so she had to choose her words carefully. ‘I admit he tried it on once while you were out, but I said no. I promise you.’ Imogen looked completely unconvinced. ‘For fuck’s sake! Look at the state of me! Does it look like I’ve been getting any action lately?’
She turned to Heidi and Magz for support, gesturing to her plaster cast. They stared back. Tim kept his eyes on the floor. Sinead caught various eavesdroppers looking across from neighbouring tables.
‘Joel chose me and you just couldn’t bear it. I knew you were jealous, but I never thought you’d resort to sabotage. You wouldn’t let me be happy. You just had to ruin everything.’
‘Joel’s a piece of shit! Obviously, he’s been shagging someone else–’
‘Honestly, I wish I’d never met you.’ Imogen walked past Sinead, pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I want you to leave now.’
‘Imogen, believe me – you’re better off without him.’
A muscle twitched in Imogen’s temple.
Sinead leaned forward on her crutches, desperate to persuade her. ‘He lied to you and he tried to use me.’
‘Get out you fucking whore!’
Imogen’s shrill outburst silenced the entire pub. Everyone stopped their conversations and turned to get a prime view of the juicy conflict; even the football fans moved their eyes off the TV. Sinead looked around the room and saw the faces of strangers grinning and sniggering. It was a grotesque sight; her public shaming the evening’s entertainment.
‘Imogen. Please don’t–’
‘Fuck off and die, Sinead!’
Someone in the background cheered raucously. A wag at the bar parroted Imogen’s insult in a whiny voice and got a cheap laugh from his mates. The onlookers waited expectantly. Sinead looked at each of her ex-friends and saw only hatred and embarrassment. Sinead nodded. There was nothing more to say. Not now, not ever. She set off for the exit. Attempting to maintain some dignity, she moved across the room as gracefully as she could manage, trying to block out the smirking faces and whispered jokes. A path slowly cleared for her. The pub’s patrons muttered and nudged each other as she passed by. She finally got to the door and opened it. Knowing that this would be the last time she would see any of them, she looked back at the table: Heidi and Magz were comforting an emotional Imogen, crouching down with their arms around her shoulders. Sinead said goodbye to her old life as the door swung shut behind her.
32
Sinead had heard people talk about hitting rock bottom and, as she ventured back to Beckenham that evening, she finally understood what they had meant. It was an emotional state far beyond misery and hopelessness, a dark place way past despair. A vast new land of pain had been discovered, and now she was lost there, trapped inside a lucid nightmare from which she would never wake.
As Sinead hobbled down the poorly-lit pavement she sensed the weight of her injured leg in its heavy cast, but it no longer felt like her own limb. People passed her by, but they might as well have been holograms. She felt no connection to any other human being. Without friends and family, she was an outcast. If she stepped out into the road and the speeding car that had knocked her down came back to finish the job, no one would care. Nobody would mourn for her. No one would give a flying fuck.
And why should they? She’d brought this on herself. This was what you got for confusing lust with love and for wanting what you couldn’t have. She had betrayed her friend, violated her own moral code – and now the punishment was being exacted. She was a bad person; a shallow, selfish, manipulative person. The turn of events had proven a truth which she’d somehow always known but previously couldn’t accept. Someone like her wasn’t worthy of love, someone like her didn’t deserve to be happy. After being abandoned by her father and neglected by her mother, the lesson should have been learned years ago: nobody wanted her. In a way the girls had done Sinead a big favour; they had proved to her that she was truly worthless. Now there was no more doubt in her mind.
The off-licence was up ahead. It was the obvious place to go. She had nothing else to do tonight, or any night, except drink until she found oblivion. Someone was standing outside the shop in the shadows. As Sinead came closer she saw it was an old man, wearing a dark-green suit jacket and white shirt with brown nylon trousers held up by suspenders. He was knocking on the shutter impatiently.
‘Don’t tell me it’s shut,’ Sinead said as she got to the shop.
‘Been closed all day, love,’ said the old man through a mouth of missing teeth. ‘Come down earlier and he was shut then an’ all. Gawd knows what he’s playing at.’
‘On a Friday night?’ said Sinead. ‘Why the fu – why isn’t it open?’ She had to stop herself swearing; it wasn’t the old wino’s fault.
‘Search me, love. I’ll have to go up bleedin’ Sainsbury’s for me Jameson’s, won’t I. It’s two quid extra in there. And another fifteen minutes up the road.’
The old man coughed before shuffling off. Sinead watched him go, then turned back to the shopfront. Leaning up against the shutter, she slowly banged her forehead against it. Of all the fucking nights to be closed. She was far too tired to go anywhere else for booze. She sighed and stared down the quiet suburban street. Oblivion would have to be found some other way. Sinead continued on to the end of the road. As she turned off, she looked back the way she’d come. A police car was pulling up outside the off-licence.
Sinead couldn’t remember the rest of her walk back; she hobbled all the way there in a trance. She stopped a few metres away from the opening to the bungalow’s driveway and saw that his car was parked there, but the house was dark. Hanging her head, she leaned back on the crutches and looked down at the pavement. She took out her smartphone: the battery symbol flashed urgently. Scrolling through her contacts, searching for a lifeline, she selected Dylan’s number, but before she could press the call button, the screen faded away. It was probably just as well. Dylan obviously didn’t want her either.
This was it, then – nowhere else to go except home. Home! The word was offensive. All her life she’d been searching for a home, but the concept was just an illusion. No such place existed; all she’d ever found were buildings that she’d temporarily occupied. This place had tricked her. The dream home; the same house she used to draw with crayons when she was a little girl. Mummy, Daddy and Sinead living happily ever after.
What a sick joke that turned out to be. Here she was, twenty years later, renting a room from some freak who didn’t even own the property. A man who called himself Elliot Sheeny, but could have been the King of Belgium for all she knew. A man who had looked after her and pretended to be a friend – just like everyone she’d ever known. A man who was almost certainly deranged and dangerous.