“Hello.” He extended a hand. This one, she did shake. “I’m Arthur.” He was new to the world of social work, obviously. He wanted to talk to them, get all their gory details. “You want a cup of tea, girls?”
Abigail recognized the look of morbid fascination on his middle-class face. Beneath it was a dollop of fear.
“No thanks, Arthur. Bath and bed.”
She took Camelia’s hand and escorted her to the downstairs bathroom. “By the way, what did you call Billy back there?”
“A bou—a castrated bull. I told him he’s an ass and I want to put him in an early grave. I want to do this so much. You cannot understand how much I want to do this.”
Abigail squeezed Camelia’s fingers and let go. “He’ll do it himself, honey. Two years tops. Save yourself the bother.”
Camelia swallowed, blinking back tears and shaking her head.
“It’s a big day tomorrow. We’re going to get a good night’s sleep,” Abigail went on. She set about scrubbing the iron bath of its brown stains and clearing hair clumps and soap bits before running the water. “Have a good soak. I’ll use the one upstairs.”
“Big day for you, yes,” Camelia said. “But what am I going to do?”
“You’re going to go home.”
“But I can’t. I have no money …” Camelia began to tremble. She wiped her cheek.
The bath was full. Abigail turned off the taps. “Don’t cry. Get in. I’ve got money. I can get you home. You dodged a bullet, missus. You’re gonna get out of this place. Everything’s going to be fine.”
ABIGAIL COULDN’T SLEEP. SHE eventually gave up trying. She lay still in the darkness, Camelia snoring softly across the room. Her thoughts raced. Her mother was dead; she was leaving her country; she had a father, a sister … If she ever fell asleep and woke again, would it all be a dream? Or part of the same old nightmare?
Better not to think. Better to create a new routine that fit the situation.
She made lists in her head. She’d arranged to get the passport at 2 P.M., but didn’t really need it until later. Billy wasn’t known for his punctuality. So tomorrow, she’d have several hours to do the things she now realized she needed to do.
AS SOON AS THE sun rose, Abigail woke Camelia. After breakfast, she escorted her to the travel agency, where Abigail purchased a one-way ticket to Romania. Both Camelia and the travel agent gaped at the cash. At least the travel agent didn’t ask questions. Neither did Camelia. After that, Abigail dragged Camelia with her to the hospital, explaining about her mother’s death, the bizarre inheritance, and the ticket to America along the way.
Camelia didn’t ask questions then, either. Maybe she didn’t understand. Not surprising; Abigail hardly understood, herself.
The sterile hospital chamber smelled the same, looked the same, but the bed was bare and empty. Abigail stood staring at the place where her dead mother had lain. Nothing but crisp clean sheets. She might as well have never been there at all.
A nurse came in. “Excuse me, it’s not visiting hours. Can I help you?”
“A woman called Sophie Thom died in this room. I forgot to ask about the ashes. Is she being cremated?”
“Sophie. Yes. In fact …” The nurse looked at her watch. “Her funeral is happening now, at Lambhill Crematorium. If you hurry …”
“Right, thanks.” On her way out, Abigail turned and asked, “By the way, what did she die of exactly?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not authorized.”
Abigail almost laughed. “I’m her daughter.”
“You’re Abigail?”
“Yes.”
“She told me about you and Becky.”
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat. “Becky? What did she tell you?”
“Strange things. She was delirious toward the end.”
“Tell me what she said.” Abigail only now realized that she was still blocking Camelia’s exit with her arm.
“She kept saying, ‘It’s all up to the girls now.’ ”
“So was she crazy?” Abigail pressed. “Tell me, please, how did she die?”
“It was cancer. Your mother had breast cancer. She was very brave.”
Cancer? Abigail tried to process the word. A normal way to die. Shitty, but normal. And subject to all sorts of factors and change. So what was with the urgency? What was with the suspicious cash and the exact timetable mentioned in the letter?
“You’d better hurry,” the nurse said, checking her watch again.
THE TAXI DRIVER WAS pleased with the tip. Funny how money made everything so easy. Abigail had paid him double to step on it. He called a cheery thanks as the two girls jumped out of the car and ran inside the crematorium.
Hearing music, Abigail opened the door on the left of the foyer. The room was packed with wailing grievers. A family member was reading a eulogy. At the foot of the coffin stood a flower-drenched easel with a picture of a smiling teenage boy. Wrong room. She ran out again and pushed the other door. Camelia still hadn’t uttered so much as a peep since Abigail had dragged her from No Life. Part of her was relieved and not all that surprised. Another part wanted to know what this very sad Romanian immigrant thought of all this madness.
There were no grievers in here. Just a minister and a coffin that was slowly disappearing through a purple velvet curtain toward an abyss of flickering flames. Another man stood at the back behind a pillar. All she could see was some blond hair. It almost looked as if he were hiding. Maybe he was lost. Abigail sat in the front row. Camelia slid in beside her.
“Should I say goodbye?” Abigail only realized she was speaking out loud when her voice caught. This was all happening too fast, too fast …
The coffin disappeared into the furnace.
The minister picked up his bible and walked out without as much as a sideways glance. There were no flowers, no pictures. She swallowed. Funerals are supposed to be depressing, but this one takes the biscuit. Abigail turned to the blond man. He was already halfway out the back door. She chased after him, Camelia on her heels. By the time they got outside, he’d jumped in a taxi. The back of his blond head disappeared down the long driveway.
Camelia must have seen the disappointment and sadness on her face. She reached for Abigail’s arm.
Screw this.
Abigail marched back into the crematorium and asked the woman at reception if she could make arrangements to have her mother’s ashes sent to her new address. She didn’t know her new address yet. Nor did she know what she’d do with the ashes. But it had occurred to her the previous night that she should probably find a way to get them in case her newly discovered sister was as baffled by all this as she was.
The receptionist tapped on the computer. “I’m sorry. The next of kin has already requested the urn.”
“Next of kin? Who?”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you that information.”
“She was my mother!” Abigail almost yelled. “How can you not give me that information?”
“If she was your mother,” the receptionist said through clenched teeth that were asking to be knocked out, “then how could you not already know?”
Abigail’s jaw dropped. Fortunately, Camelia dragged Abigail away from the desk and out the door before she could say a word.
“Come on,” Camelia murmured. “We go. Leave it. It’s nearly two o’clock.”
THE TAXI REACHED THE Solid Bar at ten past two. Abigail’s nerves had once again frozen into their standard unfeeling position. “Wait for me here and leave the meter running,” she instructed.
Billy was drinking a pint in the same seat as yesterday. He wore the same Glasgow underworld uniform, labels displayed for the world to see (Jeans: Diesel; T-shirt: Calvin Klein; Overall Message to the Universe: Unoriginal). It was obvious that he hadn’t washed. He probably hadn’t slept since she’d last seen him either. His sockets were so dark and so deep that his eyes almost disappeared into his head. His greasy hair stuck up at the back. His cheek scar was red, irritated. Wi
thout a word, he slid a passport out of his pocket and slammed it on the table, trying to smile as if pleased. But he was jittery, haggard. Crank, probably.
Abigail reached for it.
“Uh-uh. Other half first,” Billy snapped.
“Once I’ve looked at it,” Abigail said, snatching it from his grasp and opening it.
For a split-second, she was almost tempted to laugh. She found herself squinting at a thirty-two-year-old red-haired woman called Alina Beklea. “What? Who? That’s not me.”
“Course it’s not, ya numpty. Ya think I could get one with you in one day? Anyway, you didn’t give me a photograph.”
“You didn’t ask for one.”
“I’m supposed to think of everything?”
“But … I look nothing like this.”
“I dunno, dye your hair, put thick makeup on, and way-hay Alina!”
“I have a ticket to LA in my name. Abigail Thom. This says Alina Beklea.”
“Change your flight.” He stubbed out his smoke and scowled. “Gimme time to get your photo and sort a passport with you on it.”
Abigail glared at him. “My father is meeting me there.”
“You got any more money?”
She didn’t answer.
“Then, little miss goody-goody, maybe you should buy another plane ticket in the name of Alina Beklea.”
Abigail sighed and counted out £300. “Good idea. That’s what I’ll do, which means the second half of your fee has just been significantly reduced.” She tossed the money down at the bar, then turned and ran.
“Oy! Get back here,” Billy yelled. “That’s not right. I know where you’re going, Mother Theresa. I know where you’re ending up!”
Abigail lurched to a stop at the taxi window and tapped the glass. “Just gotta get something from the chemist,” she gasped to Camelia. “I’ll be two secs.” She raced over to Central Station. The glass-roofed hall of the station was buzzing with pigeons and chatter. Hundreds of people stood in front of the timetable board, staring at it like robots as they waited for their platform number to appear. People like her. People running away from something; toward something; escaping something, everything. The chemist had about a thousand different types of hair dye. Abigail chose one that matched the color in the photograph, sprinted across the road, and jumped back in the taxi.
She had less than seven hours to make her flight.
ARTHUR, THE NEW GUY, was back on duty when they arrived.
“Hi, girls. We’re making pancakes. Do you want to help?”
“No, thanks.” Abigail spoke calmly, but her palms were clammy. “I’m dying my hair red. Think it’ll suit me?”
“I think it will,” he said with a smile.
She mustered a smile in return. Poor Arthur. He was helping in the kitchen. He was polite. He was motivated. No doubt all of that positivity would be sucked out within a year.
Camelia lay on her bed while Abigail waited for the dye to take hold. She had everything she needed now, except a ticket in the right name. She’d have to get to the airport early enough to purchase a new ticket. What time was it? Four P.M. already.
Suddenly, it dawned on Abigail that she was missing one vital item. Raising a finger to her lips, she tiptoed out of the room and scurried into the office. Five orange files were strewn across the desk. Flicking through them with one eye on the door (everyone was still making pancakes), she found hers, grabbed it, and ran back to her bedroom.
“What’s that?” Camelia asked.
“Nothing.” Abigail wrapped the orange file in a plastic bag and put it into her backpack. Still, she had to smile. Now she had everything she needed.
The alarm on Camelia’s mobile phone went off. Her color was ready.
“Here, let me do your makeup.” Camelia opened her Russian-made cosmetics bag. “You have such pretty face.” She dabbed tiny dots of foundation and smoothed them with her soft fingers.
Abigail glanced at her reflection in Camelia’s compact mirror. While her hair was the same color as Alina Beklea’s, she did not look thirty-two years old.
“You have same mark as me,” Camelia remarked, noticing the faint red discoloration on Abigail’s arm.
“It was the last tetanus booster,” Abigail said absently.
“I have same. I have all kinds of … how do you say?”
“Vaccines?”
Camelia nodded.
“Yeah. Health Services gives them to all of us—” Abigail broke off, about to say Unloved Nobodies. “Kids,” she finished. “Chicken Pox. And the triple whammy.” They rattled off the next three words in unison: “Measles, Mumps, Rubella.” Abigail laughed. “So, Romania must not be all that different from Scotland.” She pictured a rainy, downtrodden city. She pictured infant Camelia, sobbing as she was administered shots by a stranger. She pictured present-day Camelia, wandering back to a foster home alone, dripping wet, after her tetanus booster.
“Every place is the same,” Camelia murmured. “But in my world, girls with lips like yours wear gloss!” Concentrating hard, she applied thick goo to Abigail’s lips. No one had ever done this for her before. She had to admit, it felt wonderful. “Go mwah! Like this.”
Abigail held up the mirror again and made the kissing noise requested.
Camelia laughed again. “Are you loving yourself?”
Abigail had to laugh, too. Not the phrase she would have used. But on the plus side, she no longer looked like Abigail Thom, orphan of the No Life Hostel. It was a start.
“Now, we have to make you ugly and old.” Camelia was gentle as she worked her magic: using mascara, eyeliner, too much (green!) eye shadow, bright pink lipstick, three more coats of foundation, and blush.
“Now look!”
Blimey. Abigail checked herself one last time. She was old and ugly … just like the woman in the photo. She resisted the urge to jump up and hug her roommate.
It was nearly 6 P.M. Time to get going.
The hall was empty and all the doors were closed, so no one would see her go.
Thank God for small favors.
That was one of Nieve’s favorite phrases. Abigail paused at the whiteboard in the hall. It was littered with photocopied pages of house rules, health and safety information, helpline numbers, leaflets about leaving care, employment agencies, immunizations, and drug counseling. She found the only clear spot, two inches by two inches, and wrote in tiny writing with the black marker: I’ve gone to America. Keep safe. Abigail. x
“Ready?” she said to Camelia.
Luggage in hand, they hurried through the empty hall and out the door. A taxi was waiting just outside. It was the first bit of good luck they’d had. Thank God for small favors, indeed.
“I WANT YOU TO take this.” Abigail counted out £20,000 of the money her mother had left her in the backseat. After all, she still had another £25,000 for her sister, if she even existed.
Camelia didn’t respond. She blinked at the pile of cash several times, then turned her head back to the window. “No. I can’t.”
“Take it,” Abigail insisted.
“Why?”
“I don’t want it. Save your mum’s life. And your own. Use it to be happy and free, whatever that means.”
Camelia shook her head. Abigail didn’t prod. Finally, Camelia tore her gaze back to the worn leather upholstery and ran her finger along the top bundle of money. Looking up at Abigail, she smiled. “Thank you,” she choked out. She reached to place her hand on Abigail’s hand. “Thank you so—”
Abigail withdrew on instinct. She couldn’t hug this girl. There was no point. Swallowing, she turned and opened her own window. She stuck her head out as the taxi made its way along the overpass that cut the grey city in half. She felt the Scottish wind on her face—for the last time, she hoped. She sighed at the River Clyde and the new monstrosities that had been built alongside it, designed to rejuvenate, but just adding to the city’s blemishes. Glasgow was just like Billy. Unhealthy, angry, unhappy, scarred with woun
ds from lip to ear.
She breathed in the stale air as they hurtled along the motorway, passing nothing notable along the way, lots and lots and lots more of non-notable nothing.
“Good riddance, Glasgow!” Abigail yelled from her taxi window. “Good riddance, shitehole of the world! Good fucking riddance!”
Abigail had never been inside an airport before. It felt like a hospital, but for happy, healthy people. A holding zone somewhere in between the real world and nothingness. And everyone except her was completely unimpressed with it, Camelia included. They’d all done it before, too, it seemed. Businessmen tapped at their cell phones; parents hustled toddlers away from chocolate displays; nobody looked where they were going. It was a big institution with rules she knew nothing about. She shifted on her feet as Camelia checked in for her 9 P.M. flight, feeling not unlike she did that first day in the care room at Dunoon.
“This is my mobile number and my email address,” Camelia whispered once she had her boarding pass. She scribbled on a baggage address card, its little white string dancing as she wrote. “And this is my address in Romania. Please keep in touch. If there’s ever anything I can do for you … anything, ever—”
“I will,” Abigail interrupted. She shoved the piece of cardboard in her back pocket. “Now, get out of here!”
Camelia smiled at her. She leaned forward, as if to hug. Abigail said good-bye the only way she knew how. She turned and ran off.
THE QUEUE AT THE American Airlines counter was long and slow. Eight thirty P.M. by the time she was served. Only ninety minutes till takeoff. Luckily there were seats left on her flight, but only in first class, which meant Abigail had to fork out £2,111 for a one-way ticket to LA in the name of Alina Beklea. The woman at the desk was so flustered she hardly even looked at the phony passport. She shoved it into the scanner. There were no problems. The power of cash, Abigail thought to herself, feeling queasy. No questions asked, happy cab drivers, compliant sex traffickers. Amazing what you can get away with if you’re hideously ugly and have enough money to buy a first-class ticket to America.
As Abigail moved away from the desk, her head began to spin. The crowd, the bright lights, the cavernous echo … It’s all too fast, she thought again. She couldn’t snap into robot mode. Forty-eight hours ago she’d been Abigail Thom, Unloved Nobody. Now she was Abigail Thom, heiress of a small cash fortune, with a father and sister waiting in America. She had to fight to breathe. Los Angeles. Was she really going there? To live? Was she really heading toward the international departure gate? Side-by-side with suits destined for hotels and affairs, with spoiled kiddies destined for theme parks?
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