Dirty Dancing

On Thursdays, the library stayed open until 7.00pm. On this particular January evening, it was already dark outside, and when the occasional customer came in, the air, which blew in with them, was bitterly cold. It was quiet, not many people wanted to turn out on such a cold day to return or renew books, and much of the library’s business was now conducted on-line. Laura, a twenty-two year old, university graduate, the senior librarian, Mrs Selby, and Tom sat behind their semi-circular work station, idly chatting. At 6.45pm, Mrs Selby told her staff to ‘do a walk around the premises, and warn people that we’ll be closing in fifteen minutes.’ Laura and Tom set off in opposite directions, weaving in and out of the tightly packed shelves of books, peering into the various enclaves, which the bookcases made.

           As Laura approached the historical fiction section, an offensive odour accosted her, and there slumped on one of the library’s padded chairs, head on chest, legs splayed widely apart in front of her, soundly asleep was Ruthie. In the winter, she was a regular visitor, in summer they rarely saw her. Generally, she caused little trouble; she would shuffle in, sometimes pausing at the main desk to chat, select a newspaper from the rack displaying that day’s editions, and then secrete herself away in a secluded corner. There had been a couple of occasions when Mrs Selby had been compelled to ask her to leave: once she had arrived with her lunch of fish and chips, evidently expecting to eat them in the area of her choice, another time, she had settled in her chosen corner, and pulled a bottle of vodka out of her tatty shopping trolley, swigging from it with relish. Mrs Selby’s polite requests for her to go elsewhere were met with a long stream of expletives, but she had gone.

           Ruthie always pulled the shopping trolley along behind her. Today, she had a maroon crocheted beret pulled low down on her head, locks of salt and peppery hair hanging from it onto her shoulders, and a khaki mac encased her plump body, secured at the waist by a length of narrow rope. On her feet she wore voluminous, knee length wellingtons, and the gap between mackintosh and boots revealed a small expanse of purple blotched, bare legs. Laura approached her cautiously, the surrounding stink causing her to breathe through her mouth. She reached out and shook Ruthie gently on the arm, saying.

           ‘Ruthie, wake up. It’s time to go.’

           Ruthie started, opened her eyes, lifted her head and looked blearily around her, before asking.

           ‘What time is it?’

           ‘Nearly seven.’

At this, with surprising agility, Ruthie jumped to her feet, grabbed the handle of her shopper and shouted.

 ‘Fucking hell, I’ll never get a bed in the shelter now! Why didn’t you wake me sooner?’ Mrs Selby, alerted by the shouting appeared protectively at Laura’s side, to hear her say, in a placatory tone.

           ‘Now, now Ruthie. I’ll run you round there in my mini. It’ll only take us five minutes.’ Mrs Selby whispered to Laura.

           ‘That’s not a good idea. She could attack you or anything.’ Ruthie’s hearing was apparently acute, because she glared at the senior librarian and muttered.

‘Stupid bitch.’ In any case, Mrs Selby’s objections were ignored, Laura walked through the library, followed by Ruthie and her trolley, grabbed her coat from the stand behind the librarian’s desk, shrugged it on as she left the building, leaving Tom and Mrs Selby to lock up.

           The journey did only take five minutes, but it was an uncomfortable one. Laura soon found the stench of Ruthie sitting beside her unbearable, and so wound down her car’s windows. The cold air, which blasted in, as the vehicle sped through the nearly deserted streets, began to numb Laura’s face and hands. She compromised, heating full blast, windows half open. They arrived at the large church hall, which doubled as an emergency night shelter during the winter months. Ruthie hammered loudly on the hefty, double doors, and a woman cautiously partially opened one door and peered out.

           ‘Oh Ruthie. It’s you. I’m sorry, you’re too late we’re full.’ Ruthie began to hurl an impressive and imaginative list of insults at the woman, who calmly waited, half in, half out of the door until she had finished. Turning to Laura, she asked.

           ‘If I can find Ruthie a place in another shelter, would you be able to run her there? Laura nodded mutely.

 ‘It’s doubtful, they’ll all probably be full, but I’ll ring round and try. Get back in the car. I’ll send Don out with a hot drink for you, whilst you wait.’ Ruthie and Laura did as they were told, Laura opening the car windows and occasionally turning on the engine to keep them warm. Shortly, a man bearing two steaming mugs of tea appeared and passed them through the window. As they sat, hands cupped around the warm mugs, gratefully sipping their tea, Laura attempted conversation.

‘Where were you born Ruthie?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Have you lived in Clacton long?’

‘Can’t remember.’ All her attempts were met with similar evasive answers, so she soon abandoned the effort. Instead, both women sat drinking their tea, staring blankly ahead. Eventually, the female refuge worker appeared beside the car, crouching down, looking in the window and addressing them regretfully, she said.

‘I’m sorry, no luck.’

Laura asked.’Can you think of anywhere else where Ruthie could spend the night?’

‘No, not really. I can give her a blanket if that would help?’

‘No, it’s ok thank you. We’ll think of something.’ Retrieving the mugs, the woman disappeared back into the hall. Turning to Ruthie, Laura asked.

‘Is there a friend or relative who could give you a bed for tonight?’ Ruthie remained staring ahead, but now tears streamed down her face, and huge sobs shuddered through her body.

‘No, no-one.’

‘Where would you normally go on a night like this?’

‘Shop doorway, or a squat, or try and lurk in Asda until Security chuck me out.’ Laura was appalled, she rented a room in a family home, and she knew that her landlady would not permit Ruthie to stay there.

‘We’ll go back to the library.’ They drove back, parked the car. Laura unlocked the doors, disarmed the intruder alarm and allowed Ruthie back into the building. Deliberately, to avoid other people realising that, they were there, she left the main lights switched off. They found their way to Ruthie’s historical fiction section by the light from the outside street lamps and the blue security lights. Ruthie flopped down into ‘her chair’, announcing as she did so.

‘Hungry’ Laura had anticipated this, and on the return journey had been thinking, which takeaway she could order, that would be least likely to give the game away in the morning that they had been there. The fragrances of fish and chips, Indian and Chinese meals all lingered. There was a lot of packaging with pizza, but she could nip out the back and throw it in the bin before Mrs Selby arrived. As she placed the order on her iPhone, she asked

‘Pizza do?’   

‘Can you get us some drink?’

‘Sure, what do you want, coke, tango, Pepsi.’

‘No, real drink. Like this.’ With that Ruthie, rummaged in her trolley and produced a half bottle of rum. She commenced swigging from it, smacking her lips appreciatively. At one point, she proffered the bottle to Laura, who politely declined.

‘Got any music round here?’ By this time, Laura was not only feeling sorry for Ruthie, she was also becoming a little frightened of her. Obligingly she found her playlist, turned the volume up and placed her ‘phone on one of the nearby low tables. Ruthie stood up, bottle still in hand, and began to sway in time to the music, which then developed into an enthusiastic boot stamping, arm waving, swirling dance. She joyfully cried.

‘It’s a party! I’ll go and find my mates.’

‘No Ruthie, absolutely not. Just me and you in here.’ Ruthie continued to whirl and spin around, sometimes staggering slightly, until she fell heavily against a bookshelf, knocking it to the floor. Shelving and books all lay in disarray on the carpet. Books were splayed half open; spines pointing upwards, others had travelled a surprising distance across the floor. It was a mess, but the crash appeared to have calmed Ruthie, she collapsed back into her chair.     

There was a tentative knock on the front door, and a delivery man peered dubiously through the glass doors into the library’s interior. Laura hurried to the doors and took the pizzas from him. She handed Ruthie her box, who opened it and began tearing large hunks off the pizza and stuffing them into her mouth with both hands. She ate ravenously, her mouth open, spittle and small pieces of food flying into the air. When she finished, she dropped the packaging, lent back and gave a satisfied belch. This developed into coughing and gagging, rapidly culminating in her leaning sideways from her chair, and depositing a large heap of vomit onto the carpet beside her. Laura was distraught, how was she ever going to clear this mess up before eight thirty in the morning.

‘Cold’. Ruthie was right, the heating had been off for some hours now and the temperature was dropping quickly.

‘Lots of stuff to make a fire with in here.’ Laura was cross.

‘How dare you even consider burning books! You’ve already damaged several valuable ones, when you knocked the shelf over.’ Ruthie regarded her with baleful eyes before uttering.

‘Cunt.’ Laura walked away, she needed some space to calm down. She suspected that, the only hope of retrieving the situation was for Ruthie to go to sleep. She knew that, they kept a blanket tucked under the desk, in case a customer fainted. She would cover Ruthie up, and hopefully she would drift off to sleep. Laura located the blanket and hurried back to Ruthie. She was gone! Panicking, Laura ran to the next aisle, and there she was lying on the floor, her head twisted at an odd angle. Laura called her name – no response. Ignoring the repulsive smell, she bent down beside her, there were no apparent signs of life. She put two fingers on Ruthie’s neck and was unable to feel a pulse. Shaking she got to her feet, went to her ‘phone and hastily dialled 999. The ambulance was quick, Laura let the crew in, who confirmed her worst fears, Ruthie was dead.

‘We can’t take her away.’ One of the crew explained. ‘We’ll alert the police, and they’ll take it from there.’ Soon the library was awash with police officers, uniformed men secured the front entrance with blue and white incident tape, white overalled forensics staff scooped samples of Ruthie’s vomit into containers and took photographs of her prostrate body. A female officer informed Laura that she would need to come to the station to be interviewed.             

Two days later, a letter came from the coroner’s office requesting Laura to give evidence at the inquest into the death of Mr Fred Burton. Letter in hand, she immediately rang the coroner’s officer.

           ‘I’m ringing about your letter, case reference 8113.’

           ‘Ah yes, regarding the inquest of a Mr Fred Burton.’

           ‘Well, that’s exactly it. I was expecting to attend an inquest, but for a female called Ruthie. I think perhaps you’ve sent me the wrong person’s letter.’

           ‘Let me check. Your name is?’

           ‘Laura Willis’

           ‘Thank you. I’ve definitely got you down as a witness for Mr Burton’s case.’

           ‘No, there must be some mistake. I was with a lady called Ruthie when she died on 28^th January, if that helps.’

           ‘That’s the date of Mr Burton’s death. What is Ruthie’s family name, please?’

           ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’

           ‘Ok. Are you able to tell me where she died?’

           ‘Yes, Clacton library.’

           ‘Records show that’s where Mr Burton died. How strange. What I suggest is that you attend on Friday, it’s a legal requirement anyway, and we’ll sort it out then.’          ‘Thank you. Bye.’

           ‘Bye, Ms Willis.’

So eight days after Ruthie’s death, Laura arrived at the County Council’s offices and found her way to the atrium outside the main meeting rooms. A middle-aged, suited man with a clipboard approached her.

           ‘Good morning. What case are you here for, please?’

‘That’s just it. My letter says Mr Fred Burton, case number 8113, but I didn’t know him.’           

‘That’s odd. Can I borrow your letter, please? Let me find the coroner’s assistant and have a quick word.’

‘I was with a lady called Ruthie when she died, maybe it’s a word processing mistake’

‘Thank you. Take a seat over there. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

With that, he walked briskly off, threading his way through the milling groups of people. Laura cast her eye around, and saw that behind her there were chairs arranged along the length of one wall. She made her way over, found a space between an elderly woman, dressed entirely in black, and a young couple who were holding tightly onto each other’s hands. She sat and surveyed the space around her. The area appeared to be part of the original council offices and was impressive. The ceilings were high, and held up by large stone columns, the floors shiny and probably grey marble; the walls were adorned with wooden plaques, giving lists of past leaders of the council, and county councillors. There was also one recessed area, where a large statute of a bewigged gentleman stood, holding a scroll, and peering at it through half- moon glasses. Around her stood an interesting cross section of humanity: there were uniformed policeman, several smartly dressed men and women with document folders or laptop bags, people looking pale and drawn, others openly crying, some happily chatting and laughing. In other circumstances, Laura would have found the scene fascinating and enjoyed the experience.

           Eventually, her clipboard man reappeared.

           ‘Ms Willis, the coroner’s assistant says that you are to go into the inquest of case 8113 when called.’

‘But…’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I can’t discuss it any further. Please do as Mrs Winterton asks.’

With that, he turned away from Laura, walked off, apparently in search of other new arrivals. She remained where she was, and watched as case numbers were called, and several groups of people left the foyer, apparently to attend inquests. Eventually, case 8113, Mr Fred Burton was called and Laura stood and followed three other people into what may have been a court room or perhaps council chambers in a past time. The coroner, a woman in her early sixties, sat behind a desk on a raised diás. The three other occupants were: a woman who remained standing, a policeman and a young man who held a short hand pad, possibly a reporter from the local newspaper. The coroner made her formal introduction, and then continued.

‘This appears to be a straightforward case, so I’ll not prolong it any longer than necessary. I have the pathologist’s report, and his findings are as follows: Mr Burton was a fifty-seven year old man. Initial examination revealed signs of self-neglect, and his body was emaciated, his weight being only 101lbs. The primary cause of death was a cerebral aneurism, but the patient was also suffering from advanced cirrhosis.’ At this point, the coroner paused, looked towards Laura and said.

‘And now Ms Willis, I’d like you to stand and tell us about the night that Mr Burton died.’ Laura stood and deferentially began. ‘I’m sorry your honour’ (she thought that this was probably the correct way to address a coroner.) ‘I think I’m in the wrong hearing. The person I was with was a woman, and she was overweight and looked at least seventy years old.’

‘Ah, I think that I can help with some of your confusion. Laura sit back down for a minute. Quite often when someone has led a neglectful lifestyle they can appear much older than their chronological years. At the start of his report, the pathologist notes that, before his examination could begin, it was necessary for him to cut away several layers of clothing from Mr Burton’s body, including two dresses and a jumper. Wearing excessive clothing like this could well have made the patient look as though he was bigger than he actually was. PC Bell if you would like to stand, please, I believe that you also can add some clarity to this matter.’

The policeman stood and read from his notes. ‘We found the birth certificate of Mr Fred Burton in the deceased’s luggage. Background checks revealed that Mr Burton had been discharged from a local children’s home in 1980, aged sixteen. Over the next couple of years he was arrested several times for minor felonies, such as shoplifting, being drunk and disorderly. Each time, he gave his address as no fixed abode. Then, in 1984, when he was twenty, he was again arrested, this time for assault. On this occasion, he was dressed as a woman, and insisted as being known as Ruthie. He remains a well-known figure locally, and we have been unable to trace a next of kin.’

‘Thank you PC Bell, you may sit down now. Does that answer your questions, Ms Willis?’ Laura nodded. ‘In that case, if you wouldn’t mind telling us what happened on the night that Mr Burton died, but you can remain seated.’

Afterwards, Laura sadly realised that she, like so many others, had never truly looked at Ruthie. If she had, she may have realised that she was a man. Overall, she was glad that she had shown kindness to Ruthie on his last night. There was a consequence of her actions, following a disciplinary hearing; she was dismissed from her employment as a librarian.