Pushed by Jane Idrissi

The week before we killed her, the weather was terrible. Sideways rain seven days straight, and cold, so bloody cold. The last place I wanted to be was in her shitty little shop. There were no customers, heater had busted and she’d got me clearing out the basement. Up and down those frickin steps like I’m her frickin skivvy. Lifting and shifting, heavy boxes, one after another. Then out to the bins in the pissing wind while she’s taking selfies. Or vlogging, draped, in all her awful fashion.

On the Monday evening, I called my friend.

“We should go for it,” she said.

*

The shop was in a Tudor building across three wonky floors. Jewellery arranged on ground level and, hung askew, up narrow stairs, pictures of wolves playing wind instruments. Antique lamps, Ming style vases, smoked glassware crammed the landing. And, in the boutique, a black chandelier, ornate mirrors propped ad-hoc. Facilities comprised of one antiquated electric radiator and a teensy stinky kitchen without a running sink. The loo by the fire escape could freeze in winter. She stored a bucket in the stockroom in case.

Every day that woman killed a piece of me. While the history of the place fuelled my mind. I imagined the cruel secrets buried within the walls, ghosts lurking, creaking beyond the shadows. To pass the time, I invented stories about the dead. Wicked tales with wretched endings would whirl around my head. Those poor old souls. I carried their shame inside of me.

Hour on hour I endured there alone while, upstairs, she’d swamp social media. Or pose from her home amid palatial gardens, checking in with me, constantly, accusingly. Had I got rid of the flies in the kitchen yet? What about the pigeon shit on the window sill? Why is the XS Flame Maxi Dress damaged? MOVE THE VENETIAN DRESSER DOWNSTAIRS FUCKSAKE!!

Night after night, I’d cry down the phone.

“She’s bad for our mental health,” my friend kept telling me.

Even in high summer, the shop was grim and chilly. Come winter, I no longer cared. Perched behind the till I’d nap on the job (of course, sitting was fiercely forbidden). Some comfort I got from pilfering paltry bits and bobs, and ditching my pillage in the skip might lift my spirits for a bit. Such petty acts of spite would serve as tiny chinks of light in those desolate never-ending shifts. But on that miserable Tuesday morning when she made me dispose of a rat trapped in the toilet, well, the woman only had herself to blame.

Later, when I rang, my friend broke down.

“WE CAN’T CARRY ON LIKE THIS!” she cried.

Wednesday, I spent decluttering and dusting, lugging the fucking Henry from floor to floor. Even had to eat my tuna sarnie on the hop, smearing bits of it, willy-nilly, across freshly hung stock. Around three, she rocked up on the back of a boozy lunch, a clique of her arse-kissing ‘followers’ in tow. Party pipes a-tootin’, reindeer horns akimbo, glitter on sparkle on more frickin glitter. Parading a ruby satin pencil dress a la white fur trim, sequin stilettos with floppy velvet bows, she swaggered around, commanding prosecco while, for the next few hours, I’m fetching fish-infused frocks. By closing time, she was too busy salivating over the reading on the till to notice me flob in her handbag.

I called my friend while I was having a bath.

“Nice one,” she snickered.

On Thursday I was steaming the new delivery when this woman popped in, introduced herself as an ‘influencer’. Now, I’d never owned a smart phone and the idea of an electronic community still causes me actual pain —the kind of people who are ‘instafamous’, that that is even a thing. But, taking down her details, I can’t stop frickin grinning. And that man on the market, well, what a bloody star – the Samsung A20e, he advised, a state-of-the-art device for an-up-to-the-minute lady and the camera, he winked, second to none. Later, when I found three soiled sanitary towels stuffed in the bin, with a note on her desk to EMPTY ASAP!, I could see it for what it was: a Live Stream opportunity!

Mid-wank, I put the call in to my friend.

“Atta gal!” she said.

All of Friday, I was skippy as a kid. The way I chatted with a sliver-lipped customer like she was my greatest pal. And, all the while, assessing the filmic potential in every given moment—the juxtaposition against the winking of the trinkets; the wave to symbolism through my smile; the sheer cinema by her demise! Tickled pink, I was, tinkering away. Too absorbed in finding a fitting soundtrack among a box of old CDs that I didn’t hear the bell. Until, when she kicked me from behind, I turned to see her face, hanging there. She was holding a framed photograph of A2 size —a vintage print of a young Kim Novak decorating an enormous Christmas tree —and, looking at such beauty beside malice incarnate, I’m frickin reeling in ideas. Still, I take the picture from her arms, dutifully.

In truth, I don’t remember what or how. But, at the bottom of the stairs she landed, twitching. Then, after a time, maybe a couple of minutes, she settled. A broken shop mannequin in a Crimewatch parody. Not the final cut I’d had in mind. Her neck had cracked. Her head, twisted. And, yet, even in the dimness, her skin glistened. All the hate, drained from her eyes. She looked, well, vulnerable. Apart from a thin trickle of blood seeping from each milky orb, she was perfect. Almost human.

For a long while I stood there, gazing. Her stillness moved me, restored me. My mind, rinsed, and so frickin free. In that blessed silence, so frickin free.

             *