Short Story: No Exit Left

Short Story: No Exit Left

The idea was get in, shut the door, stockings off, sluice down, bit of a cry, comb of the hair and straight back out again. Ten minutes max. Small petrol stations were best; toilets round the back. They gave you a key on a big chunk of wood. So you’d not walk off with it, she supposed. Most people were put off by the hassle; went on to the Little Chef or one of the bigger services. The small garages were quiet. Had to be careful, though, not to keep turning up at the same one in case they started noticing you. But she liked to work back and forward over the same stretch much as she could; end up not too far away so she could get home easy. But tonight, she thought, she was way beyond getting too old for this. She was done.

“Come on, darlin. You’ll need to come out of there.” Voices and shuffling feet. Banging on the door. It shuddered under the blows; a heavy, wonky thing on a metal frame, a bash in the plywood at shin height. Had had its share of kickings in its time. One of its hinges was bent. She’d had to twist and drag it shut; heaving on it to get the key turned.

She was standing now with the old and rusty key in her hand, blades of light playing through the keyhole as the figures outside shifted their weight and waited for a response. She didn't breathe. If the lock held, she’d be safe. Or cornered.

Bulb was gone. Pity. Because she could just make out there was a mirror. Not broken either. Not much use though, ‘cept with the door open. She peered into the dark glass wondering what kind of shape she was in, standing with her stockings off, a new pair fished out of her bag. The mumbling outside was muffled, indistinct. There was a try of the handle and a departing grunt of annoyance. She reached back and felt for the lavatory pan, checking the seat for a dry bit. The voices receded. She perched to get the nylons on. Silence. Her left cheekbone was starting to smart.

Gradually a calm reclaimed the space as she sat, one stocking up past her knee, the other, in a wet patch probably (she was past caring) sagging round her ankle. A cold draught of air blew at her from somewhere. She blinked in the dark and she was in a cave-mouth. A cavern. Or better. Better than that. A black expanse. No stars. Alone on the sheltering earth, waiting for a full moon to break through the cloud cover. It would shine down on a wide, low, empty plain for her to walk across, clear and free. Her breathing slowed. It was relief she was feeling. A decision had been reached.

The car had been a red one, an SK something or other. Good nick, decent paintwork. She always took the car into consideration as well as the man. She’d got talking to the driver at the magazine rack. But she hadn't really bothered with the usual routine. Usually she had a story ready, some story to get them to give her a lift. They’d act a bit dim, surprised at first but at a convenient slip road she would direct them to, a minute or so up the road, the rest would follow swiftly, money in advance.

It didn't always do to approach a man inside the shop. You had to play each one as it happened. She’d hover at the door, look in and look, in a pretence of agitation. If her target seemed inclined to stop or even just throw her a concerned glance, she'd say something like, “No. Sorry. I was going to ask … but. It’s all right. Sorry.” She’d turn away, rummaging through her handbag as if looking for something. If they asked what was wrong she had various ways to steer things. Sometimes she was a motorway services relief assistant manager, waiting for the company mini-bus but it seemed like she’d missed it and she was going to be so late because it was an hour and a half before the next run and oh dear! Sometimes she’d had her wallet pinched and that was her car parked beside the car wash only she hadn’t noticed her wallet was missing until she’d filled up with petrol and she was plucking up courage to ask the man at the desk to phone the Police for her because she didn’t even have a coin for the phone and didn’t know what to do.

The first time she’d used that story she’d invented a son for herself who could lend her the money if only she could get a lift into town. Worked a treat. And, of course, when it was obvious what she was really up to, even though the man soon knew there was no son and no car stranded full of unpaid petrol at the garage, he had still dropped her in town as if there was; went off with a nice little ready-made story to explain his delay getting home. "Poor woman. In such a state. Her son wasn’t too pleased. But well I had to see she was all right, didn't I? I know I’m really late. Sorry. Just the kind of guy I am."

But tonight’s mark had been the kind that didn’t need a story. He had caught on right away, or so she'd thought. No need for much preamble. “What kind of car do you drive?" she'd asked, supposing by the look of him it was the big solid saloon standing at pump three. Dogs and owners, she’d thought, same with cars. "Oh that one! Yes. Thought so. Nice. Company is it?" He'd started to volunteer a throwaway comment about perks of the job. "No not the car, sweetheart," she'd said, lowering her eyes a fraction then flicking him a straight look right in the kisser. “I mean ... company, is it? What you’re looking for?” He had taken another quick look – at the sensible skirt, the neat, manicured nails, the unremarkable hairstyle. He'd slotted the Golf magazine back in the rack, paid for his petrol and, passing her waiting by the newspaper stand, quietly led the way to his vehicle, opening its doors with a point of his key fob and a swagger as the loud ping of the central locking system threw open all the latches. She'd lowered herself into the passenger seat and he'd said, simply, "Where to?" belting himself in, turning the ignition, easing off the handbrake and casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the blind spot.

She liked a careful driver. She always paid attention to the way they drove. You could tell a lot from the way a man operated a clutch. As he had turned back, taking her in, checking she was wearing her safety belt, she'd levelled him with a friendly smile, uncrossed her legs, relaxed them apart a little and leaned in. Lightly touching the back of his hand where he was gripping the pommel of the gear stick, she’d seen him lick his bottom lip, glance at her knees, take his hand off the gear and transfer it to the steering wheel. She'd sat back. Maintaining an even, self-assured tone she'd said, "As a rule, I only go for the good looking ones.” She had expected a smile for that, a smirk ... something. He had not complied. He wasn't responding. "What will I call you, by the way?" she added. "Not that I mind one way or the other but … oh, and actually it's just up here, the slip road we need to take … it would be nice to have a name. A made-up one, if you like."

"What's yours?" He'd finally spoken, slowing and changing lanes, indicating left as she'd directed.

For purposes of work, she had a variety of handles; variations of her own: Irene, Rena, Gina, Deane …The names kept her clean, like the clothes she wore for working in; stepped out of at the end of a shift. It was important to get all the details right; to look one way on the outside and quite another underneath, but never, ever, the real one under that. The great thing was, whatever story she told them, whatever name she gave, for them she was a stop on a journey. For her, afterwards, they were gone.

Mostly, she did the talking. They drove, following her directions…“Take that turning on the left. That turning. That’s it. Aren’t the roads busy coming up to Christmas? People should learn to relax, don’t you think? Here’s perfect. What about that spot over there? Mm. Or this one right here? Oh. Oh, my."

There had been one spell in the summer when she’d been operating like a taxi. No sooner seen off one customer than she was picking up another and luckily she could turn on a sixpence back then so she’d been kept at it, busy, non-stop all day; regular buffet-car service she had had going back then. There was of course a snag to that: finding enough places to wash and change. The best thing was not to have to but that … that was quite a feat, although not an impossible one if she judged things right.

It mattered to look good. Mattered more, of course, for all their sakes, to look more like the woman she was claiming to be in public than the woman she turned out to be when nobody but the man who was paying could see. When the contract was done, it was back, as seamlessly as possible, to the motorway service manager, the lady with the missing wallet, the mother of the blind art student ... the distraught innocent spinning tales, getting lifts from helpful strangers into town. Surprise was an essential ingredient of the whole charade. Pleasant surprise of course, for the customer. If it wasn’t a pleasant surprise what she was offering, well they didn’t buy. Simple as that. “No harm. If you’re sure? All right, pet. Cheerio.”

Tiredness Can Kill the sign had said. She was wearing her navy blue suit today. Marks and Spencer. Crumple proof fabric. Extra skirt in the bag along with the spare packs of stockings. Washed like a hanky. Dried overnight. Durable. Ideal. Somewhere along the way, an odd, hard-lipped smile had attached itself to the suit with a sharp pin, like a cheap brooch. The stockings were mocha brown, sheer. Rarely went two rounds. She bought them in bulk, wholesale. Chosen for the contrast between the way they looked from a respectable distance and the way they felt under the palm, stretched over a bent-up knee, surprisingly smooth and slippery. The hair was cut and layered. Good condition. Probably still its original colour underneath – a dull mouse, tinted to give the colour a lift and cover the grey, if there was any. She'd never waited long enough between rinses to find out.

The underwear was ice-green and lace. She never wore tights. Always suspenders and stockings. And she never, hardly ever, had to take more than one of them off. The stockings kept their hands busy while she encouraged them to mess about with the cocktail of textures of skin and nylon and the little metal catches on strappy elastic. She helped their fingers and thumbs and whispered all the things she was going to do next, or how much they would like what it had just occurred to her to do. She played with bits of them; told them the fatty overhang was just because their belt was too tight. Said their skin was soft – any old bollocks to spin it out. She wrenched at their shirts without letting them loosen their belt. Removed pieces of their clothing in the wrong order; pulling at a tie, pushing off a shoe, unbuttoning a shirt from the bottom up. She touched them and herself in the most innocent but surprisingly arousing places. Used her teeth, gently enough, on the backs of their hands. Breathed hot mist into their hair, if they had any. Checked they had their own teeth before pushing her thumb into the roof of their mouths while she dug for their belt and fumbled for the zip, making sure the buckle was still firm. She encouraged them to guide her hands and used their own on themselves whenever possible. They thought they were going to get everything she said they were going to get but, usually, by the time she got down to it, it was all over, and they were apologising. She'd feign disappointment but hang on to the extra tenner in advance because, well, it was hardly her fault if they hadn't been able to hold back. Game over.

She knew, most times, if she hadn’t already slipped away, where to get them to drop her after. It was never far to some place with a toilet for what had slowly evolved into a ritual - stockings off, washing down, hand scrubbing, hair combing and the composition of the face. Only, lately, this crying thing had begun to be part of it.

These rest rooms are inspected hourly. Please notify the management if you find any of the facilities not up to standard. Her eyesight was well adjusted now. She could make out the print by the spill of light through the broken door. The statement wasn’t true by the dog-eared look of the notice itself and the pool of water and God knows what on the floor. The skin on her left cheek bone was coming up tender and puffy. There was a tightness gripping her under her ribs and a pain in her back. One stocking on and one off she was sitting still, picturing herself a hour ago reaching up to the top shelf of the magazine rack, so intent on laying her trap, she’d not noticed his. “Oh dear. What’s this I’ve picked up?" she'd said, flashing him a glimpse of the front page. "That’s not the 'Woman’s Own'.” He'd smirked at the silicon breasts on the cover-girl, and the way this prim looking woman was showing him a not too shabby bit of cleavage herself. She'd shown her hand too soon. That's where she'd gone wrong. She knew that now.

The banging on the door shook her.

“Come on. Let’s be having you!” Man’s voice. Familiar. Oh shit. Big burly man in a grey suit, grey hair, puffy bags under his eyes, drooping, fleshy, bottom lip. Big hands. Fat fingers and a ring with a half-sovereign in it. She’d not liked his look but instead of doing a body swerve she’d zeroed in on him - or been lured in. Anybody would think she'd wanted it to go haywire this time.

He had taken her to his car. She’d found herself using the son-in-prison story; waiting appeal, innocent of course. Not her best. And he hadn’t responded. Not properly. She should have realised something was wrong but her usual radar for trouble hadn’t alerted her. She’d trotted out the bit about the useless husband with the bad back. She’d blethered on about the time it took to make the prison visits; the travel costs. She'd babbled. Not like her although she often did get so into her tales she almost believed them herself.

She quite liked her imaginary lives; the jobs she gave herself, the children she conjured, the sad-sack, dead-beat husbands or just plain dead ones - Bruce and his fork-lift accident, Tam with the leg they didn’t talk about, Derek with the lungs. Poor Derek, heart of gold, bad chest. She had a fondness for them all; her imagined dependents. She could harp on for miles about unbreakable bonds of duty and care. Once, when she’d got quite worked up about being late on shift for her motorway job and how Charlie her boss was short staffed and he was such a sweetheart she didn’t want to let him down, she’d let herself get dropped off at the staff entrance to a Motorway café. She'd stood watching her mark speed off back up the M74 and nearly turned for the door and gone in. She’d been ready to call out to this Charlie person that it was all right - she’d arrived! She’d kicked herself that day as she’d walked away across the car park, no money earned, client gone, no desire to get back on track and find another - half wishing Dina was her real name and, if nothing else, she could go earn a bob or two totting up the till, taking her turn on the sweetie counter while the wee new girl had her coffee break. Dina from the diner.

She’d climbed an embankment and squeezed through the fence at the back of the estate. One good thing at least – the stretch of motorway where she’d ended up was right beside her own block. Not too much of a trek home empty handed.

The man in the grey suit hadn’t seemed interested in her story, hadn't needed one. But she'd forgotten how much she did. The stories were for more than getting customers. They were the way out of a bad situation. Usually it was the men who were tense.

But he had been the one talking about money, sitting still with his seat belt on, opening his wallet, fingering notes, holding them out to her. It was already way past the time to back out but perhaps not too late to do something else. She had sat there and looked at him, and seen what she’d been doing, all this time. All of it. Past, present … and future. She’d walked right into it. And now she was here, looking into a void, locked in a hole, staring at herself in a blackened glass.

She looked down at the floor. In the gloom, she could see that one shoe had tipped itself over and was lying in as puddle. She didn’t stir herself to rescue it. Early afternoon had slipped into late.

“Hallo! You all right in there? Open the door.” Garage man’s voice. That was why it was familiar. It was the man who had given her the key on the block of wood. Not the grey suit at all. She could hear him talking to somebody else out there with him. “Bloody nuisance." she heard him say. “Some woman came in a got the key. She’s likely went off and took it. Either that or she's gave it to the next guy and they’ve locked it and forgot to hand the bloody thing back in. Third bloody time in as many weeks.” The door shuddered in its frame as he slammed his boot into it and walked off.

She breathed out. Thought back to the man in the grey suit. She’d battered herself in the face with the corner of the door of the car as she’d made her escape, leaving the man cursing his seat belt and rummaging in the glove compartment, not giving chase. She'd scrambled as fast as she could, sliding down a slope into a thicket of bushes and brambles. The feeling had gone from the side of her face, the skin was probably broken but there hadn’t been any blood. It would look worse than it really was. Enough to keep her indoors for a while. No sick pay in this game.

She’d snagged her skirt as she’d pushed through to the road beyond. As soon as she’d found a decently lit street she’d walked, slowed and relaxed. She’d looked round when she'd come to a pavement. No one about. No one following. No one looking. But, as she walked, she’d imagined figures stepping back into corners, dodging from lamppost to lamppost. Every window had had a spy, watching from curtained rooms. People in every house had been talking on telephones about her. Every stray dog had had a tracking device on its collar, tailing her. The garage she'd found on the corner had been small, suburban, safe and ideal.

Now, sitting in the dark, it was quiet. The garage man had decided the toilet problem could be left for the next shift or for the night, she was sure. In a minute, she was going to be able to quietly turn the key, shove the door and go. Home. Get cleaned up, wait for the bruises to go down and … think what she could do. Go down the Job Centre? Give her real name? Tell them her National Insurance Number? Get money or, worse, a job interview? Sit through advice about writing a CV? What sort of job would she get, if she even got that far? Minimum wage. Shift work? Team work? Gossip. Folk having a go at making friends with her? Gabbing. Asking questions. Talking to her. About her. Nodding at her in passing till they gave up even on that. It would all come out: who she was, where she'd come from, what she had done, why it wasn't a good idea to have too much to do with her, sitting by herself swallowing her lunch at the back of the canteen.

She looked out on her empty plain, the moon rising on the impossibility of a solution. There she was, a small speck, walking away, leaving nothing but footprints behind her, off into the distance with no excuses, no explanations, no obligations, no regrets. Ah. That bit wasn't quite true. There would always be regret. What she had done, the source of her regret, hadn't been, in a sense, her fault. But it was nobody else's either. It was she who had done it - the act, the deed, the detached episode, the thing apart, the spill, the accident, the mess that she had done so well to mop up, kick over, shut away in a cupboard, bury, smother, hide.

It was the one story she never told. The one story that wasn't the way out of a bad situation. It was the way into a worse. It was the truth and it didn't belong with this creature, this travesty in a blue suit, this cold clinician with the switch-on smile and the simpering, accommodating manner. How she hated Irene, Rena, Deana, Dina … all of them, but none of them as much as the pale, shaking girl she remembered, in the bus station toilet, staring at a shape in a polythene bag on the floor. It wasn't the man in the car she'd been running from. It wasn't he who had put this bruise on her face, who was putting a stop to her, cutting her off, bringing her to a standstill. It was she, the frightened fourteen year old inside her who had done that; waiting, waiting all these years for something, somehow, someone to intervene, to help her, to make her, to find out the truth and take her away.

Away from herself. It was she, she with the key, who had locked herself in a hole. It was she who was going, one more time, to let herself out, and off.

She fished for her suspenders and attached the stockings front and back, smoothing her skirt and slipping her foot into the wet shoe. She listened for sounds on the forecourt. Nothing. She turned the key. It didn’t turn. She tried again. This time it moved in the lock. She pushed at the door. It didn’t move. She swallowed and turned the key again. It crunched in the lock and stuck. She stopped a moment and tried again, applying more force. The lock was rusty but, finally, the key turned. She sighed with relief and pressed down on the door handle. Her cheek was starting to throb. Her feet were soaking. Her bag slipped off her shoulder and landed, spilling its contents in the wet. She could feel the panic damming up in her chest. The key had turned in the lock. It had turned. No longer with a crunch, it had turned, smooth and easy. But the door had stayed fast. She felt the key loosen and wobble in the hole. She took it out and felt it with her fingers. The sweat on her neck chilled. No hidey hole this. The key was a lollipop-stick in her hand, without the sweet bit; a rose-stem with no bloom, not even a thorn.