Paula Spencer by Roddy Doyle Page B

dirty toilet paper on the floor.
    She took Leanne home three days after, in another taxi. She helped her up to her room and she helped her down again. She brought her food and treats and gave her the remote when she dropped it. She said Thanks at first. Then that stopped. Getting her to talk was hopeless.
    Then she made the mistake.
    —I'm just going down to the shops, Leanne. Can I get you anything?
    The face lit up. She sat up on the couch. She smiled – grinned; the little girl who'd danced around the kitchen, trying to distract her father, trying to charm him away from her mother's broken body.
    —Bottle of something would be nice, she said.
    Paula tried to laugh it away.
    —You're joking.
    Still, the grin. Can I have an ice-cream, Ma? The little head bobbing. Can I? Can I?
    —For fuck sake, Leanne.
    The child's big eyes.
    —Don't ask me, Leanne. Please.
    She walked out of the room.
    Leanne did it herself. She got up the next day and went to the off-licence. She used only one crutch. The other one was lying in the hall. Paula watched her struggle down the street. No coat or jacket on her. Using the neighbours' walls and gates. It was like she was climbing a cliff. Paula couldn't go with her. She couldn't go after her.
    She went to work.
    No one has come near Leanne, or phoned, as far as Paula knows. There are no names written on her cast.
    It's not fuckin' fair.
    She can't go home. She can't face the sight of her on the couch, the sound of the telly sliding from channel to channel, the bits of broken noise that do her head in. She'll go straight to work, with the shopping bags. She'll wander around town a bit. She can go to Smyth's, have a look at the toys for the grandkids. There's plenty she can be doing.
    She's losing her fuckin' mind. She can feel it. She can put her hands on the cracks.
    The list.
    Jack.
    She writes the word. She prints it. COMPUTER.
    It's bought, hiding in Nicola's attic. In its big box.
    She takes the last of her coffee. She holds it in her mouth. She knocks it back.
    She found the extra hours. She worked. She went into the AIB and opened her own account. She chose a branch that wasn't the closest to home. It's about two miles away. The money that goes in stays in, unless she's prepared to walk. She isn't going to waste it. She wastes nothing. She's a rock of sense. She doesn't have a bank card yet. She didn't want one. She didn't want to touch the money until it was there, the exact amount. She didn't want to relax.
    She trusts herself. She'll get herself a bank card after Christmas.
    Does she, trust herself?
    Not today.
    It's not about money. It's about being careful. She has to be careful. For the rest of her life. It's killing her. She can feel it. Every word, every little decision. Chipping away. She wants to put her head on the table here. She wants to just give up. Not give up – but take a break. Not have to ignore Leanne. Not have to worry about Jack. To sit down and feel comfortable. To sleep. And wake up like she's rested.
    She can't go on.
    Why should she? Who's thanking her?
    She's feeling sorry for herself. Fuckin' right she is. The blinkers she has to wear. She can't look left or right. Straight ahead, but never too far ahead. And no loitering – keep going, keep moving.
    She's out of the cafe. She's heading for the Dart.
    Leanne is coming at her. Going sideways on her crutch. She's hanging over the road. White-faced from the cold. And coming straight at Paula.
    She stabs the path with the crutch. She was told not to put weight on the ankle. Paula was there. She heard the doctor tell her. But she's moving as if she has to keep the good foot off the ground. Like she's punishing herself.
    —Leanne.
    Leanne sees her and stops. Starts again, and stops. Paula makes sure she's not in her way. The street is empty. There's no one looking. She cares about that. It surprises her.
    Leanne is skin and bone. Paula sees that, out of the house, out in the open. Leanne is dying.
    —Where