Her lower lip trembles as she is overwhelmed by a fraction of the same happiness that she feels in the photo. It is her most valued possession. Her whole life was lived for that photo she thinks. She struggles out of the stiff, velvet, faded violet armchair that is twice as tall as her. Alf would read the paper by the fire sitting there after getting home from the docks. She can see him there. She stands for a moment still, inattentive. She opens the hollow door and walks into the passage turning the light off. In absolute darkness, she walks up to her bedroom, an empty, cool place, bare, no photos. I literally cannot see anything. She breathes heavily and irregularly. She removes the full-length black flower print dress she has worn today and slips into a nightdress. Sliding into the cold sheets, she lies back, sighs, closes her eyes and drifts into a troubled sleep. A sleep governed by thoughts of her husband.
The next morning, she automatically wakes at 6 and makes her way to the toilet. She eases her way slowly into the bath and soaks in tepid water for 10 minutes. She hauls herself up, now, and dries herself off with a pure white towel with an embroidered lily stitched into the corner. She dries every part of her wrinkled, her loose skin stretching as she strokes it. She remembers her husband’s touch, coarse and uneven, but beautiful and wonderful. She rubs her towel against her face and dreams of one day being reunited with her beloved.
She returns to her shadowy bedroom, the dawn is but arriving and only a little light shines through the rotten, thin curtains. She steps into the same dress and prepares to leave the house. She unhooks the nylon beige raincoat and opens the front door, which leads to a hall, with a balcony on one length and a row of doors on the other. The door opens with difficulty. The frosty wind forces her to squint; she sighs as she leaves her home. The balcony looks over a courtyard of broken cement, the council has been redeveloping it for years. She turns left and finds the lift door; she summons the lift- it does not come. It is broken, she sees, when closer she looks at the notice board. They can’t bloody spend the money on me to save my old legs, but they can fight a war against the Asians?, she says. She makes for the stairs and very gradually goes down the two floors of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, she sighs and comments how her legs aren’t what they used to be. She says she isn’t looking forward to climbing up the stairs again.
As she walks out of the complex, she passes the bus stop, at which a group of 5 fat, pale girls are standing. You all right, love?, they squawk. She is startled and gives a look of terror to these girls. Shall I get you a trolley?, they continue, tauntingly. Maureen is affected by this and is shaky. Alfred fought for this country, and those ruffians can worry me like this?
She heads to the park where she plans to cut through towards Timberley Lane, where the shops were. The shops there used to be open, the butcher’s and the fruit and veg- now there is only a Spar. She opens the gate to the park and starts to make her way around the field. It is frosty and she nearly slips, she doesn’t know how she didn’t fall over then. When the weather’s bad, it always takes her a while, she walks carefully and slowly.
Near a bush, she hears a stir. She looks around and sees nothing apart from a few birds near the lake. She sees nothing at all. Again, she continues walking. She moves on further.
“Oi, bitch! Give me yer ‘andbag.” Maureen Downing looks around and sees a tall, white shaven headed young man. She is not scared nor shaken at all.
“Not at all, boy. I will not give you my bag. You will not take my bag”, she says. The man’s face breaks into a face of shock and discomfort at the sudden difficulty that is presenting itself.
“Look, you silly cow. Just give me it, before I kill ya”, says. He shows Mo a sharp knife.
“Kill me, then, you bastard. I don’t care anymore. I have nothing to live for and everything to die for. Bloody kill me if it will please you, but you are not taking my bag with me alive.”, she screams.
“Look, you old slag, I don’t want to do it, don’t make me. You don’t have to die”, he says.
“Do you want this bag?”
“Yes, give it to m-”
“Then you will have to kill me!”
With an air of reluctance and inexperience, the man brings back he knife. He looks at her and offers Mo a chance to reconsider and hand him the bag. He suddenly brings it back and throws it forward with all his strength. The knife enters between her ribs in the left half of her chest. She chokes and screams at the shock of this. Blood is seen at her mouth, now dribbling towards her wrinkled neck. Blood seeps out at an astonishingly fast rate from her wound. Her eyes are open wide, looking upwards. The man just stares in amazement at what he has done. He hears a dog at the entrance, and grabs the bag, which is tangled around Maureen’s neck. He pulls hard and jerks her head. It releases and he runs away with it. She is on the floor and holding the knife with her hands. The dog and its owner are running to Maureen’s dying body. The owner is a woman, herself about 40, with long brown hair and brown eyes. She dials 999 from her mobile phone and calls the police and an ambulance.
“Are you alright love?” she says.
“I’m wonderful”, choked Maureen. It was clear that she would not survive. Her blood was being pumped for metres around and splattered on the frozen grass. She lays horizontal and the cold grass. She is unaware of what is around her, she sees white. She knows she is close to meeting her beloved again. She is happy.
Maureen releases a final groan and released any muscles she had been using. Her head hit the pavement. The owner of the dog screamed desperately and the dog barked in panic too.
