Pier Pressure 
Pier Pressure
by Loretta Riordan
'You're not singing, Lisa!' The Nurse's big balloon face sprang up in front of me. I stared. Crouched at my
feet, she bobbed around a little as though on a spring, reminding me of a childhood TV character—oh, what was
that damn thing called? Huge red face, freckles, and, I recalled with a tiny private smirk, a moustache. Zebedee.
Nursey here was a Doppelgänger. She spotted my grin and took it, mistakenly, for encouragement. 'Feel a bit shy?'
she asked, reaching for my hand.
'No, actually I don't,' I said, 'It's
just that "Daisy Daisy" isn't exactly my era. I might seem 150 years old to you, but I wasn't actually
born till 1962. I mean, what is it with you people and these bloody old songs? Even the bloody Beatles would be
better than this crap.'
She snatched her hand away. 'Well I'm sorry you feel like that, Lisa,'
she said, mouth tight. 'All the others seem to be enjoying it' I gave a roar of laughter, which, sadly, emerged as
a cackle, 'How can you tell? Most of this lot are catatonic! What—fresh catheters all round, is it? Oh, please...'
She glared at me with raw dislike. Great. Bring it on, as we used to say.
'You've got a very negative attitude, Lisa. A VERY negative attitude. Nestle Court has the best facilities in the
area, and it's lucky for you they let you stay on after poor Matt died.' Hearing his name, from her, was like a slap.
'Don't you ever use my husband's first name to me again,' I said, evenly. 'He couldn't stand YOU.' Unable to hold my
gaze, she looked at the floor, running the toe of her rubber institutional shoe over some imaginary speck on the
floor. Her face puckered. ' Just remember you're on probation here,' she reminded me softly. You AND Jo. Last
month's little performance was a disgrace. So just have a think about where you'd rather live—here, with all these
facilities...or Blunkett House, where you don't even get your own InfoScreen, and it's four to a room? Think on,
Lisa...'
'Oh, time for bed, Zebedee,' I said, reaching for my sticks.
She frowned, confused. 'Zebedee? What are you on about?'
'Don't worry about it,' I wriggled to the edge of my seat, for the
inevitable fight with my limbs. 'I'm going to see Jo.'
I tried not to wince as the pain in my joints blazed across my body.
Tears sprang to my eyes, and I quickly blinked them away. Zebedee looked down at me. She was clearly wondering
whether I would accept her help, wondering whether to save herself the barb of my rejection, and also wondering
whether a sour old trout like me didn't just deserve every ache and pain she got. Our regular stand off. I set
my chin, like an Easter Island statue.
The soft purr of Jo's wheelchair edged into the hostile silence, and
we both relaxed. 'Talk of the Devil', said Zebedee. Quite. Like a magnificent wrecking ball, Jo powered down the
corridor towards the lounge, bouncing from skirting board to wall and back again, her tyres leaving fresh rubber
signatures on the paintwork. She wore one of her vintage Miyake dresses, in crimson pleats with tweed inlays, and
her hair was piled in a careful mess of twists and curls. As usual, she carried her PalmPod, which was blasting out
a Kraftwerk track from 1980. The music was arrhythmic and urgent, giving pace to the progress of her chariot as she
burst through the automatic doors into the lounge. There were mumbles and groans from some of the other residents,
although Damien broke into a smile from his recliner in the corner, and began smoothing his shirtfront. Claire and
Wendy, flanking him, shot us matching glares through their cataracts, and leaned towards one another, grumbling
furiously.
Jo manoeuvred her chair expertly into the space next to me, and looked
coldly up at Zebedee. 'Yes?' Zebedee considered her options. A muscle was twitching at the corner of her left eye.
'Just...just turn down that damned music!' Without blinking, Jo flicked her thumb and the room was full of chill
silence once more. In another of the recliners, Steve began to stir and moan as his painkillers wore off. 'Nurse!'
he whimpered. Zebedee turned, and, after a last burning glance in our direction, strode towards him, shoes squeaking
like drowning kittens.
Jo and I exchanged smirks. There was a slight draught as the garden door
opened, and little Tamsin came blinking into the lounge, concentrating hard on each tiny step. She tottered towards
us on her Zimmer frame, and stopped in front of Jo. 'You're in my place', she complained, nervously fingering the
collar of her blouse, 'I have my chair there in the afternoons. I always sit there.' Her eyes were glistening. 'Go
away,' said Jo, with an imperious wave of her hand. 'Now. Go away, and don't talk to me again,' Tamsin stood
wilting on her frame for a moment, then slowly tapped her way to the other side of the lounge. I could see her chin
trembling, and felt fleetingly sad. 'She's harmless, you know,' I whispered, but Jo flicked her hand again.
'So?' I asked. 'Any luck?' Jo looked around her, and rolled her eyes
dramatically, a signal for me to lower my voice. It was all theatre, of course. Most of the other residents were
sleeping or deaf, and Zebedee was busy attending to poor Steve, who had begun to wail horribly. Jo leaned towards me.
The familiar smell of chewing gum, Kenzo Poppy, and age. 'Result', whispered Jo. Pepe called by this morning. He saw
his friend last night and he'd just had a delivery. Fresh off the boat, you could say.' Jo's laugh was Marlboro-dark.
He's a good boy, Pepe. And of course, not one to turn down an inheritance.' She snorted. 'Si was fond of him...anyway.
I've got it. Stashed in my dresser. But we can't risk keeping it too long. We've got to do it tonight. And if it's
good, he can get us more. He was
very grateful that we never grassed him up when they found the E.
Apparently that stuff's very hard to come by these days'
A soft-slipper shuffle halted my response. Damien had sidled up to us,
and was beaming his wavering, Parkinsonian smile. 'Hi girls,' he drawled, leaning casually on his stick. 'You're
both looking lovely today. Any chance of a get-together in my room later on?' 'Get lost, Damien,' ordered Jo. His
face dropped like a final curtain. In a rare moment of compassion - or selfishness - Jo relented. 'I'll pop in on
you in half an hour, Damien. But I can't stay long. Lisa and I have plans.' Damien cast us a wistful, hungry look,
but Jo had placated him, and with a wink he began the long journey to his room, where we knew he would clean his
teeth and, if time allowed, change his underwear.
Jo watched Damien's retreating back as he made his unsteady way for a
while. She turned back to me. 'Silly old sod,' she said affectionately, ' I don't know what it is, but I can never
say no to him.' She waved sarcastically at Claire and Wendy, who had watched the scene in mutual silent rage. Claire
raised her trembling middle finger.
'So, what can we expect tonight?' I asked. 'Last time was great, but I
didn't realise it'd make us so noisy. Apparently we were screeching like Banshees, and you kept telling Zebedee you
loved her' We both shook with subdued giggles. Jo began to wheeze and then to explode into hard racking coughs. She
fished for her Inhaleez-stick, jabbing the end into the back of her dappled hand. The coughing gradually subsided,
but beneath the makeup I could see that all colour had drained from Jo's face. She dabbed at her mouth with a hanky,
and I saw the orange specks of blood before she had time to screw the hanky into a ball. Our eyes met, and she gave
a tiny shake of the head. I knew was my cue not to comment, not to humiliate her by mentioning her body's treachery.
'What would Si have made of all this?' I asked, though we'd asked each
other a hundred times and I knew the answer. Her smile softened, as it did whenever we talked about our husbands.
'Oh, Si...he hated drugs, really. All those boring parties listening to our coked-up friends banging on about
themselves...but what Si hated more was this place, and all the...crap...so we made a deal. Like the pair of you.'
'Mmm,' I agreed. ' I promised Matt I'd
"rage". We used to read Dylan
Thomas together, you know. Terrible windbag, really, but he made sense in places. I used to drive Matt crazy by
singing Polly Garter's song. "Oh Tom Dick and Harry were three fine men..." you know...?' But Jo and I had both
retreated to other places for a time, and we gazed vaguely through each other's faces. Jo was first to break the
spell. Her eyes were suddenly bright and greedy.
'Well, tonight's "special" is very clever stuff indeed. A genetically
modified opiate, with a mild hallucinogenic. We should be in for a nice time, provided it doesn't react too much
with the crap they stuff us with here. But Pepe reckons we should be fine. Bit of a dry mouth tomorrow, and stay
near the loo. But no significant comedown. And as I say, more where that came from if we like it.'
'I think I'll take a nap first,' I decided, reaching once more for my
sticks. 'And you'd better get down to Damien's room before he goes comatose.' Jo watched me as I slowly heaved
myself to my feet. 'My room, 7.00?' she whispered. 'But that'll mean missing Eastenders,' I said. 'Oh, go on then.'