by AA Abbott
PART 3 The Bobowlers
Chapter 28 October 2016 - Emily
The coach lurches around a corner, and I wake with a start. I stretch. My wrist throbs to remind me of its existence. All four limbs ache after being cramped in one position for two hours. I hardly slept last night, and made up for it by catnapping on the journey. Without my phone, there was no chat or music. A peek at the M5 motorway and its parallel lines of vehicle lights in the dark was boring enough to send me dozing again.
“We are now approaching Digbeth coach station, our final destination,” the driver announces, telling passengers to take their belongings and rubbish with them.
The coach wiggles past council flats, flashing pub signs and tatty warehouses, before giant metal gates open and it comes to a standstill. This can’t be the centre of Birmingham. Where are the big shops? It seems more like the tired edge of Bedminster.
Wobbly and weary, I use my wrong hand to take the heavy rucksack when the driver unloads it. The pain is intense. I’m sure it’s a mistake I’ll only make once.
It’s late, and I have to find somewhere to sleep. Panicking, I ask the driver if he knows of any hostels.
“There’s a pub up the road. Their rooms are cheap,” he says.
“Hey, we need somewhere to stay as well.” A couple of foreign backpackers approach, seemingly out of nowhere. My bleary eyes make out another coach parked next to mine.
We walk up a hill together, past shabby offices, wholesalers and the occasional pub. Conversation is limited. Their English is heavily accented and slow. The minute we leave the coach station, they light cigarettes. I’m grateful for their company, though, when we pass a rowdy group on a night out. Mum would freak out if she saw me. Little does she know I’m safer with two strangers than my own stepfather.
It’s my first visit to a pub without Mum. I feel a twinge of nerves at having to pretend to be eighteen. I’m obviously younger than the adults smoking outside in the golden glow of the windows. The smokers nod at my companions, who grind out their butts in a boxy ashtray fixed to the wall.
A babble of conversation and smells of beer and disinfectant hit me as I tentatively push open the oak door. Half-blinded by a blaze of light, I peer inside, and freeze.
David is standing at the far end of the large room, by the bar.
I’d know him anywhere: his fair hair, short at the back, bulkier on top; his black wool coat and red scarf. Luckily, he’s facing away from me, as he’s talking to the barman.
There’s no time even to turn and run. The foreign couple walking in behind me don’t realise I’ve stopped dead until it’s too late. As they crash into me, one of them cries out and the other drops a bag.
A few drinkers look up, then ignore us again once they see that nobody’s hurt. The man at the bar takes his pint and walks away, revealing a harelip and specs. It isn’t David at all. Tension drains out of me as I apologise to the pair, silently telling myself to calm down. David’s haircut and clothes aren’t exactly rare. If I’m not careful, I’ll imagine I see him on every corner. The thought is like a bucket of icy water in my face.
The customers are a mix of ages, shapes and races: a reminder that this is a big city. Unlike a Somerset village, it’s the kind of place that must be used to strangers. No-one takes any notice as we regroup and walk past their tables. The only person who attracts attention is an old guy stooped over a brightly lit machine. It whistles and sends a stream of coins clanking into a tray. His success brings envious glances and a shout of congratulations.
Behind the bar, a chunky lad in a Slayer T-shirt has finished serving the man who isn’t David, and is polishing glasses. As the backpackers’ English is halting, I feel I must take the lead. Shyly, I ask, “Got any rooms?”
“One, a double for thirty-five pounds.”
I stifle a gasp. He eyes us all expectantly, as if he thinks we want to share. How will that work? I’m not comfortable with it, but I can’t imagine he’d let me have the room for ten pounds. It’s my own fault. I should have asked the driver to explain exactly what ‘cheap’ meant.
“It’s cash in advance, I’m afraid.”
I remember the forged twenty-pound notes. I couldn’t see anything wrong with them, except the serial numbers. Maybe the barman won’t notice. I gather all my courage. “I’d like the room to myself, please.” It’s too bad for the foreign couple, but I’m not sharing with them. They can find somewhere else. My heart thudding in my ribcage, I hand over two of the notes.
He holds them up the light, and frowns. “Counterfeit. I’ll have to call the police.”
My racing heart seems to stop. Then, suddenly finding energy, I grab my bag with my good hand. My legs protest as I run straight out, the pub door slamming behind me. If I’m caught, the police will ask more questions. Even if I lie, David might tell them Mum is a drug dealer, or have me killed. Did Beth really commit suicide, or did David arrange it somehow?
Aches and pains melt away in my desperation to escape. I dive into a lane which unexpectedly turns out into a busy main road, choked with traffic despite the late hour. Dodging cars, I cross, then race into a side street, around a corner and another. Slowing down, I slink into a quiet alley. I press myself back against a wall and peek slowly into the street. Has the barman followed me?
It’s soon obvious that if he bothered to try, he’s given up. He must have let the couple have the room, and forgotten about me. I’m completely alone in a deserted road. It’s not the kind of place where people live, just a row of shuttered brick buildings. Faded signs reveal a cash’n’carry, a balloon company and a stationery supplier. It’s anyone’s guess whether they’ll wake up in the morning, or if the businesses are long gone.
I hear the thumping bass sound of music being played. It’s impossible to make out the song, and there’s no hint of activity nearby. Perhaps the noise comes from the main road. My adrenaline is wearing off now. I’m trembling with hunger, fatigue and the aftermath of David’s brutality. The straps of the heavy rucksack dig into my shoulders. Relief floods over me when I remove it. Dumping it on the ground, I lean against it, wondering what to do next.
A sudden movement at the darkness of the alley’s dead end sends me crashing into the wall with fright. I grab my backpack, ready to run, letting out a small groan when a cat rubs up against my ankles, mewing and circling my feet.
“Miaow.” Yellow eyes stare beseechingly at me. The small black and white cat’s tail is upright and curving over like a question mark. Purring, the animal rubs itself against my legs, then sniffs my backpack.
“Are you hungry?”
It gazes at me without blinking. How can a moggy answer my question without even speaking?
“Me too.” I unclip the flap at the top of the rucksack. A packet of crisps falls out. The comforting aroma of salt and vinegar rises when I rustle open the bag. “Guess this has our names on it,” I whisper.
To my surprise, when I crumble some crisps and drop them on the ground, the cat seizes them. Gingerly, I sit beside the animal on the alley’s brick floor. Luckily, it’s dry, but the cold seeps through my jeans. We finish the crisps together. I start on chocolate next.
“Sorry, it’s bad for cats,” I whisper to my new friend, feeling like a traitor as I bolt down a huge bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk.
Still weary, my eyes search the alley for shelter. There are no porches or doorways, just a few empty boxes piled in the shadows. In central Bristol and Bath, scruffy men bed down in sleeping bags and cardboard shelters near the shops. There’s even a village of tents in a churchyard. I’ve always been scared of the rough sleepers and never thought I’d be one of them. As a breeze slices through the cagoule, I realise it’s my only option.
With my last reserves of energy, I flatten the boxes and arrange sheets of cardboard over, under and around myself. Removing my cagoule and adding three jumpers, I snuggle down in my ramshackle home.
Will I ever see Mum again? My tears send a shiver straight through
me. It’s mild for October, but still feels bitterly cold. The cat nudges its head through a gap and slides into my arms. Gratefully, I cuddle its warm body, and drift off to sleep.
Chapter 29 October 2016 - Emily
The sun is shining brightly, bouncing off the trees so their green leaves glow. A waterfall gurgles. I’m shivering, unable to understand why I’m so cold on a summer’s day. I jolt awake. It’s dark and my limbs are aching.
The sparkling cascade has vanished, leaving only the sound of trickling water. I shift and stretch, trying to work out where I am. Flimsy walls tumble down around me. I yelp in surprise. A leering face looms in front of me, the dull orange colour of lamplight.
“Look what I’ve found. A pretty one.”
I’ve only just worked out it’s the middle of the night in a Birmingham alley when his hand yanks at my jumper. He drags me to my feet and towards him.
I gasp in shock, gagging at the stench of sour breath, stale tobacco and urine.
Another male voice slurs, “I’m having a slash. You do her first.” The splashing noises continue.
I try to scream, but no sound emerges. Pain seethes through me as I struggle. It makes no difference because his grip is strong. Frantically, I recall Ray Cross’s advice. I raise my knee and swing it forward.
My tormentor twists sideways, easily dodging me. Still clutching my jumper, he uses his free hand to unzip his jeans. “That wasn’t very friendly, bab. Say sorry. Give me a blow job.”
At last, desperately, I force out a scream.
“No-one will hear you, bab.” He pushes my head down.
“What the hell are you doing?” It’s a woman, her tones upper class like Miss Broadstone’s.
My assailant laughs. “Want to join in?”
“No, she’s not joining in.” This other newcomer is male, his voice rich and authoritative. There’s a familiar hint of Bristol about it.
“Looking for a fight?”
“I’d never start one,” my rescuer says, “but I’d always finish it.”
I glance up. He’s standing at the entrance to the alleyway, lit by the streetlamp behind him: a curly haired youth in a parka and jeans. He’s short, but his stance is firm. The girl’s leaning casually against his shoulder.
“I know you, don’t I?” she says to my attacker. “Unfortunately. You were at my dad’s party just now. You’re one of his bricklayers.”
I take advantage of the distraction to wriggle free, wincing at the pain flooding through me. Memories of Philip’s attentions surface again.
The girl glares at my assailant as if he’s a piece of dirt on her trainers. Dressed in leather biker jacket and trousers, she has heavy eye make-up, dark lips and a black bob. With her pale skin, I could imagine her playing a vampire in a Twilight film.
Although obviously the undead don’t exist, the couple radiate an air of danger. If they weren’t on my side, I’d be scared of them.
My attacker backs away down the alley, nearer his friend. “It’s Mr Betts’ daughter,” he mutters. “And the DJ.”
“That’s Mr DJ Jack and Miss Cassandra Betts to you,” my rescuer says.
“Is this how you repay your employer’s hospitality?” she asks, icily. “You’ve drunk the club dry at his birthday party. Now you’re trashing his reputation by attacking a random stranger.”
“It’s a misunderstanding, ’s’all. She’s our mate.”
Jack stares at me, my backpack, and the cardboard sheets flapping as a breeze picks up. “You know him, this prick who made you scream?”
“No.” I shake my head for emphasis.
“Thought not. Get out of here, the pair of you.” Jack steps back, giving them space to pass. “I’m counting to three and I want you gone. Oh, and you’re banned from the club.”
“Can you do that?” Cassandra hisses at him.
“Oli will ban them if I say. Can you get your dad to sack them too?”
“Should think so. If I could be bothered.”
“Am I bovvered?” he asks, and laughs.
My harassers aren’t listening. They’ve made their getaway by now.
“I don’t need to count after all,” Jack says. “Hey, here’s Penny.”
The cat, conspicuous by its absence since I awoke, is weaving around his feet. Jack scoops it up. He strokes it, while Cassandra tickles its ears.
I exhale, suddenly aware I’ve been holding my breath. The couple’s affection towards the cat makes them seem less sinister.
“First night on the streets?” Jack asks.
I nod. “She’s a nice cat. Is she yours?”
“He. As ever, turning up like a bad penny. Yes, he’s mine as much as anyone’s. Good boy,” Jack says, raising the cat to his face and burying his chin in its fur. “Well, you know all our names, even the feline’s. Who are you?”
“Emily.” I should lie, but I’m too tired to think straight.
“Come with me and Cass, Emily. We’ll find you a spot to sleep.”
Cassandra’s smoky eyes shoot daggers at him. “You don’t even know her.”
Jack shrugs. “So? Dickheads aside, there’s a storm brewing. She shouldn’t be out here.”
“Her choice. She might have missed the last bus.”
“I don’t think so. Not exactly travelling light, and I know that isn’t a Brummie accent. Anyway, it’s just for one night.”
“So you want a threesome, Jack?” She grins.
Jack sees the horror on my face. “Take no notice, Emily. It’s her idea of a joke.”
I have no option but to trust him. It’s better to take my chances with them than see what else the wind blows into the alleyway. I reach for my rucksack.
“Can I carry that for you, Emily?” One arm still cuddling the cat, Jack swoops to pick up the heavy bag.
I nod. My whole body is aching. “Where are we going?”
“Right here.” He marches down the alley, Cassandra in tow, wrinkling her nose at the stink of fresh urine. “Sorry, no red carpet or rose petals.”
I’m bewildered, until I make out the shape of a door, right at the dead end of the passage. Jack dumps baggage and cat to unlock it. He flicks a switch and a cold white glow spills over us.
“Come in quickly,” Jack says. “It’s cold outside.”
Inside, my first impression is emptiness. It’s no warmer; only the breeze’s absence is an improvement on the street. The space is huge, brick-walled, with fluorescent tubes dangling on chains from a ceiling too high and too dark to see. Thick dust and cobwebs cover every surface. Although I can’t see the spiders, they must be enormous.
“You live…here?” I gawp at both of them, about to run back out of the door, but Jack is shifting a scabby wooden table against it. There’s no other furniture in sight.
“Relax.” He heaves rusted bolts shut for good measure. “I’m not keeping you in, I’m keeping trouble out.”
A faint sound, like the whisper of rustling paper, travels from the furthest corner. The cat streaks towards it like a bullet.
“Good boy, Penny. Get the rat!” Jack gives a thumbs up.
Can life get much worse? “A rat?” I echo.
“Not for long,” Jack says. “Penny will see to that. Coming upstairs?” He hoists the rucksack onto his shoulders, and points to the front of the building.
For the first time, I spot a stepladder reaching up to a curtained balcony. It’s not just a gallery around the sides, more like an extra floor over part of the space, as if the builders reached a certain point and decided not to carry on. Do Jack and Cassandra have a flat up there? If so, where are the stairs? Perhaps there’s a lift.
Hand in hand with Cassandra, Jack heads for the ladder. He shins up first. At the top, he lifts a curtain and disappears behind it.
Cassandra waits at the bottom. “Emily, don’t just stand there.”
The concrete floor is free of dust in what is clearly a well-trodden path. Satisfied I’m following, Cassandra climbs easily in her silver satin Nikes,
holding a sweep of red fabric open for me.
Awkwardly, I scale the steps to join her, relieved they don’t wobble.
“Wow.” I’ve entered a tent of mismatched velvet drapes. Old crimson, purple and yellow curtains glow in the light cast by a table lamp sitting on a crate.
“Like my place?” Jack switches on a fan heater. It’s plugged into an extension lead, which seems to be the only source of power. Wires trail away from it like spaghetti.
“It’s interesting.” An indoor tepee can’t be anything but. I didn’t know people lived like this. The floor is a patchwork of faded rugs and there are just odd pieces of furniture: a desk and chair, a mattress, a heap of cushions, a beer fridge.
“You can sleep there.” He points to the cushions, slinging my backpack next to them.
Cassandra sheds her black biker jacket, revealing a grey top underneath. She settles down on the mattress, cross-legged, like a goth pixie. “Want a smoke?”
“Sure.” Jack removes his parka too, laying it on the back of the chair. The curious curtained room has warmed up quickly. He fiddles with one of the desk drawers, which has a secret compartment. From it, he takes a plastic bag of cannabis, a pouch of tobacco, a lighter and a packet of Rizlas. Setting them out on the desk, he turns to me. “You okay with weed, Emily?”
“I prefer cocaine.” Why did I blurt that out? It was an attempt to seem grown up, but I just sounded fussy.
Jack laughs, without any nastiness. “Sorry, you’ll have to do without.” He rolls a joint, lights it, and takes a drag, blowing the smoke through his nostrils. Then, he snuggles into Cassandra, passing the spliff to her.
“I deserve that blunt after my hard work. Daddy was pleased with the party.” She holds onto it for several puffs, relishing it as Jack says he hopes her father will book both club and DJ again.